


The Ballad of Sorrow Creek

by MeltingPenguins (lilmaibe)



Series: The Ballad of Caleb Quinn [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Caleb can't catch a break, Don't copy to another site, Multi, Please note that the RDR2 characters have taken up new names upon ending up in Caleb's reality, Post-Canon, Post-Entity, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilmaibe/pseuds/MeltingPenguins
Summary: Two years ago, Caleb Quinn went missing during the massacre at Hellshire Prison. Now he returned out of the blue with no recollection of what happened, odd dreams that might relate to it, and no time to look into the matter, as life throws an adventure at him.
Relationships: Caleb Quinn | The Deathslinger/Original Character(s)
Series: The Ballad of Caleb Quinn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985521
Comments: 26
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warnings: Mention of eye-injury and dismemberment)

"...So then I said," Seán finished, "'How was I s'posed t' know that was yer mum?'"

Next to him, Tommy let out a nasty cackle.

"Oh, aren't you horrible men," an indignant voice hollered from the stagecoach Seán and Tommy were guarding.

Tommy slowed his horse to ride next to the carriage's window, tipping his hat in a half-mocking apology at the elderly woman inside.

"Sorry, ma'am, but that's 'ow life is out 'ere."

The woman wrinkled her nose at that, and sat back.

"If it gives y'any peace o' mind, ma'am," Tommy continued, "We're almost in Glenvale, we won't be much a bother for ya anymore."

A hefty harrumph was all he was getting. He cackled under his breath and rode up to Seán again.

"Think they gots the butcher back up?" Tommy started casually.

Seán shrugged.

"Three's a charm, y'know. What? Was Matthews right, an' yer worried 'bout yer reputation?" Seán grinned. "'What Tommy _'Smokin' Ruin'_ Burke burns down, stays down'?"

Tommy spat at the ground, but before he could respond, the elderly woman poked her head out of the carriage again.

"You two ought to be less proud of your horrid past."

"Sorry, ma'am, but that's 'ow life is out 'ere," Seán singsonged, sending Tommy into another fit of cackling.

Maybe that woman was out to say something to that, but one of the other passengers —a woman around Seán and Tommy's age; and a quite nice-looking one at that— got the word in first:

"What's with those birds there?"

Seán and Tommy turned to look. About five, six hundred yards away, a committee of vultures was circling overhead.

"Them be vultures, miss," said Seán. "Means something's 'bout to meet its maker."

The older woman pulled back into the carriage with visible disgust, but the younger one kept watching the vultures circle in silence.

"Miss Catherine, would you kindly sit back proper," the older woman's voice rang out, and with a sigh the younger woman vanished back into the stagecoach.

The coach rumbled on for barely ten yards or such, when Tommy slowed down his horse, raising a hand to signal the coachman to be alert.

"What's wrong?" Seán slowed down his horse as well, casting a glance around the nearby area, a hand reaching for his rifle. Tommy nodded at the roadside.

"Is that..." Seán began, "...a hat?"

"Yeah. Looks like it's _someone_ 'bout to kick the bucket. Or a distraction, an' we're 'bout to get ambushed."

Seán craned his neck. There wasn't enough cover out here to hide a gang of bandits from sight, but better safe than sorry.

"Shouldn't you help?" Miss Catherine called.

"Waste o'time, miss, truth be told," said Tommy. "If them vultures are circling like that, the poor sod's a goner."

"You can't just leave whoever is out there to those birds," the older woman responded.

"The boys are worried it's an ambush," said the coachman, while reaching for his rifle as well. "So you better keep yer head down an' stop distracting us."

"An ambush from where?" the woman barked back, "There is nothing here but dirt, bushes and a few cacti!"

"Y' would be surprised how well they can hide a human, ma'am," said Seán as he hopped off his horse.

"The hell yer doin'?" hissed Tommy.

"'Tis a nice hat, would be a right shame to let it go to waste," Seán said, then continued in a stage whisper. "C'mon, we're too close to Glenvale for an ambush. Bandits learned better'n that the last two years." He pranced over and picked the hat up, flashing Tommy a toothy grin... which quickly faded as he inspected the item in his hand a little closer.

"Shit!" he hissed, the color in his face draining, and he burst into a sprint towards the vultures.

"What?" Tommy gawked as Seán stormed away, nearly falling off his horse as he turned in his saddle too suddenly.

"It's Quinn!" was all Seán hollered. It didn't need more.

\---

It was like looking through frosted glass... or coming up from underwater. Yeah, that was more like it, 'cause Caleb certainly felt like he was drowning while his head was swimming. He felt dizzy, nauseous and tired. So tired.

Everything hurt, and when he tried to remember what happened, all his brain provided was a great big ball of nothing.

There were sounds around him, voices maybe, and slowly the blurred mess gained some dull colours. His head was throbbing like a train engine, and he was certain his innards had been mashed together into one singular innard.

"Hey..." he heard someone say and he recognized surprise in the voice, and then there was a faint shuffling sound coming through the dull ringing in his ears.

"I think he's wakin' up..."

Caleb knew that voice. He tried to search his memory. Ted? Tim? Tom?... Tommy... Caleb groaned, tried to keep his eyes open and focus on the figure taking shape in front and a little above him.

Yes. Tommy. Tommy Burke. He's... he's one of his boys. Something reminded Caleb that this was impossible for some reason, but that something couldn't say why either. He tried to say something, but managed only a pathetic croak.

"How the fuck are y'alive, boss?" Tommy said, reaching up to push sweat-soaked hair from Caleb's forehead. "Where've y'been?"

All Caleb could do was tilt his head a little.

"He's not in any state to answer, Burke," said a different voice, and Caleb recalled it as belonging to Dr. Yeung, the guy who patched him back together more often than should be possible or reasonable.

Next thing Caleb felt was a cold wet cloth on his head, and the blurry shapes pulled back.

"But he's awake," the Doc continued. "Is that the stubbornness of you Irish?"

"It did save 'im his arse often enough," Tommy insisted in an insulted tone.

"Also had me pull several bullets and nails out of it, Burke."

Tommy cackled, and Caleb felt a hand giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"You rest up, boss. Y'gotta tell us where the Hell y'been these two years."

'Hell,' Caleb wanted to answer, and didn't know why. But instead he slipped into a blissful darkness.

\---

"Leave it to Caleb Quinn t' vanish into thin air an' come back two years later lookin' like someone used him for fuckin' target practice," Tommy groaned, nursing on his whiskey. It was just after sunrise, and Miss Josie and the new barkeep were hauling out the last batch of the previous night's patrons.

Seán, on the chair next to Tommy, drummed his fingers on the table.

"Yeah, an' I still can't make tails out o' how he did that."

"I dun think that's how the sayin' goes, Seán."

"Maybe... But it's something like that."

Tommy nodded wistfully, looking up at the upper floor's gallery. Seán followed his gaze.

"How often did we sit here, doin' this bloody shite?" said Seán, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Huh?"

"'e's talkin' 'bout ya sittin' here like two dogs waitin' fer their master to get out o' 'is bedroom," Miss Josie informed Tommy as she passed by, ruffling his hair to annoy him.

Tommy grumbled a little, looking after her as she sashayed into the saloon's little kitchen, before he sighed deeply, eyes on his drink again.

"A lot at the start, didn't we?" he murmured, and Seán nodded.

"And then we just gave up."

Tommy nodded back. And slammed his glass on the table before marching upstairs. Seán blinked baffled for a moment, before downing both their drinks and following.

Caleb was still out cold, and Seán found Tommy changing the wet cloth on his forehead.

"Don't think the fever's going down," Tommy murmured as Seán closed the door and pulled up a chair.

"It... will take a while. I mean, he's been put through the mangler a couple o' times now, but never..."

"I know..."

Silence followed.

"Ya think he won't wake up again after all?" Seán finally murmured, and by the sound of it those words took more energy out of him than he was willing or able to muster.

"I... dunno. I mean..."

"Ya two bloody worrywarts can't let a man bloody well suffer in silence, can ya?"

Seán and Tommy looked up, alarmed.

Caleb gave them a crooked grin, chest heaving a little with the effort it took to speak, voice raspy and broken.

"Boss!" Seán nearly lunged forward to pull Caleb into a hug, but thought better of it at the last second.

With a strained and exhausted sigh Caleb tried to stretch, just a little, and found himself unable to hold back a whimper as pain jolted through his body. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, and even that hurt.

"What happened?" he said, cracking an eye open at the two men sitting by his bedside.

"You tell us," Seán said. "Doc Yeung says someone used ya for fuckin' target practice."

"Eh?" Caleb looked down on himself. He needed a moment to focus, but what he saw was not good. His chest was speckled with tiny scars, barely visible, as if something stabbed him with dozens of fine needles all at once. Worse, though a little less weird, were the circular scars around his heart and just below the ribcage, as if someone shot or impaled him there. Did someone use his own bloody gun on him? No, he'd certainly not be alive then. He traced a finger over the scars, his brows furrowed.

"Got the same on the back," Tommy said. "And some on yer shoulder as if someone stabbed ya there a couple o' times."

Instinctively Caleb reached a hand back, his frown darkening.

"How?" he breathed out, getting nothing but hapless stares from his men.

"Charlie said someone pro'bly stabbed ya back in Hellshire an' dragged ya off," Seán tried.

"But we ought to have noticed that," Tommy added. "Even with the whole chaos with the explosion and all."

"Wait, what?" Caleb blinked, and finally looked around. "Where am I anyway?"

Tommy gulped and looked at Seán, who winced.

"Upstairs of Dead Dawg," Seán said. "An'... Boss?"

"Mhn?"

"Ya been missin' for over two years."

Again Caleb blinked, staring into the distance as he sunk deeper into the pillows.

"...what?"

Tommy rose.

"I think we'll need a drink fer this," he said, leaving the room.

Seán looked after him, before his head snapped back at Caleb.

"Should we... wait?"

"Fill me the fuck in, Seán," Caleb grunted.

Seán nodded uncertainly. "What... what's the last thing ya remember, boss?"

Caleb looked drowsy for a moment.

"Hellshire," he grinned. "We did in Bayshore an' the warden..."

"Yeah... 'bout that..." Seán scratched the remains of his ear, which got Caleb to quirk a suspicious brow.

"Spit it out," he snarled, and Seán pushed his chair away. Better safe than sorry.

"It... was weird..." he said, and took a deep breath. And exhaled. He sat in silence, wringing his hands nervously. "I... don't know what happened, y'know. No one does. 'Twas like time went upside-down the moment you wandered off..."

"What?"

"Things went sideways an' right to shite when we hauled Bayshore an' the warden off to the inmates." Tommy pushed the door close with his hip, putting a bottle of whiskey down on the nightstand before he slumped into his chair exhausted. "Ya won't like this, boss."

"I figured," Caleb grunted. "So what happened? You fuckers make it sound like fuckin' Bayshore's still alive."

"It's not certain," Seán admitted, grabbing the bottle to get some liquid courage into his system. "Like, we were draggin' them off to the commons, an'... like ya wasn't with us, which was weird."

"So we went lookin' for ya," Tommy added. "I mean, to think you'd miss that..."

Caleb nodded. He remembered hobbling to his old cell, but for the love of Christ, he couldn't say why. He waved Tommy to continue.

"So, Seán here, I, Charlie, Matthews, O'Leary an' Finley went t' look for ya."

"Which saved our arses," said Seán, taking another swig.

"Aye. 'Cause, we were half-way to yer cell, when a bloody explosion rocked the fuckin' prison."

"Explosion?" Caleb cocked his head.

"Took out a good chunk of the commons an' most people there..." Tommy lolled his head. "I tell ya, that wasn't natural, and ya know I knows me explosions."

"Then the marshals an' shite came in an' arrested everyone who still got anythin' like a pulse." Seán shook his head. "The six o' us made a run for it."

"Doyle an' Hogan were hanged the next morning. Kilpatrick died of his wounds 'bout three days later. The rest was dead when the lawmen arrived."

Caleb let Tommy's words sink in, falling silent again.

"The warden's a broken man, boss," Tommy tried to deliver some good news.

"So he's still alive?" Caleb growled. His boys nodded.

"Went back t' New York or Washington, I think," Tommy said. "But..." he swallowed hard. "No one knows what came o' Bayshore."

"Charlie thinks the fucker's been in the middle o' the explosion an' that's why's nothing left o' him." Seán handed the bottle to Tommy. "An' there wasn't much left o' him to begin with."

Caleb shook his head.

"Charlie's prob'ly right," he said. He was too tired to be angry, he found, and he doubted he'd be so damn unlucky to have Bayshore escape a fair fate yet again. He sighed. "So the six o' you's all that's left o' our little gang?"

Seán and Tommy nodded.

"I mean," said Seán, "They did find us. Tried charging us, too. But no one could tell for certain what gone down back then..."

"Charges were dismissed," Tommy summarized. "An' then the townsfolk what had made a run for it when they saw Kelly's gang draggin' our men into town came back, too."

"Weren't too happy we were still breathin', boss. And didn't know what t'make o' you havin' vanished."

"Can imagine," Caleb said, looking around the room. Somehow seeing it in as good a state as it was in felt... wrong, albeit only for a moment. "And then?"

"Well," Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, "they went and rebuilt the town. An' the six o' us went and... well, rebuilt trust or something."

"Yeah," Seán picked up the thread. "Like, the whole turnin' one's life around thing. Finley's working down at the General Store, making up for chopping the owner's arm off. O'Leary went to California..."

"Looking for gold," Tommy added, and Seán nodded.

"Charlie's with the butcher an' Matthews got married last spring."

"Guess I gotta congratulate him." Caleb smirked. "And you two?"

"We didn't get married," Seán blurted out innocently, getting a snort out of Caleb and an elbow to the ribs from Tommy.

"Though..." Tommy mused, "With all the sex we're having with each other, we're technically..."

Seán all too gladly returned the elbow to the ribs.

Caleb cackled, before coughing heavily, waving the two men to sit back down as they jumped up in alarm.

"Am fine," he said. "But really, what 'bout you?"

"Working for the stagecoach most of the time," said Seán, leaning back in his chair. "That's how we found ya, too." Seán quickly recalled what happened, by now three days before; how they found Caleb more dead than alive just a couple hundred yards from the road.

Caleb listened, and nodded from time to time.

Then he exhaled heavily.

"So y'all got yer lives in order?"

His boys nodded.

"I mean... we tried to continue bounty huntin'," Tommy murmured.

"But with only six of us left, an' especially with _you_ gone, boss," said Seán, swallowing dryly before he shook his head, and looked up at Caleb. "I mean... we did bury you. Sorta..."

"Buried?"

"We held a funeral for ya," said Tommy.

"Had to do something, y'know." Seán looked away, worrying his cuffs.

Caleb sat back again, letting that sink in.

"Are any of me ribs broken?" he asked bluntly, causing his boys to blink at him confused.

"I think no," Seán said, trying to rub his eyes as inconspicuously as possible. "Why?"

Without a real answer Caleb spread his arms.

"Come here, ya ol' wuss," he grumbled, and Seán took the invitation all too gladly, hugging Caleb tightly. For someone who had no qualms strangulating someone with barbed wire or biting someone's eye out, Seán was surprisingly sensible in every other regard. Good to know some things don't change.

Caleb patted the other man's back, and he could swear Seán started sobbing for a moment.

"Alright, now let go. Need ya boys to fill me in on the rest."

Seán sat back and rubbed his face, taking a deep breath.

"Alright so," he looked at Tommy, then back at Caleb, "when the smoke cleared at Hellshire an' all that, an' the dust settled, people went lookin' for ya, boss."

"No one b'lieved you'd jus' run off," Tommy added. "But there was no trace o' ya anywhere."

"You... were jus' gone."

Caleb looked at the two as Seán said that, an annoyed snarl twisting his lips.

"Alright, spit it out. There's more bad news, ain't there?"

Tommy took off his hat, running shaking fingers through his hair.

"Well... yeah... But I dunno if you wanna hear it."

"Hit me, Tommy. What with what ya told me so far, how _can_ it get worse?"

"We didn't get all of Kelly's gang," Tommy admitted, "Including Kelly. They slipped out in all the chaos."

Caleb stared into thin air, lips pressed into a thin line. His boys knew better than to say anything more, but instead shuffled out of the room. And Caleb, downing what was left in the bottle, wondered if he could mark this shite up as his own brand of 'Luck O' The Irish'...

\---

It took about a fortnight for Caleb to get back to his feet.

Having to stay in bed after such an ordeal had its advantages, like being able to remotely sort one's thoughts, and get some much needed rest.

Tommy had telegraphed O'Leary at some point, and the rest of the former Hellshire Gang had come by to say 'Hello' as well. With the exception of Finley, who was out of town for weeks now, as Caleb had learned.

Some of the other townsfolk seemed curious about him as well. Not that they actually came up to his room, but he saw some of them staring up at his window, and sometimes, when the saloon was quiet, he could hear them talking about him downstairs. Caleb was no fool. He knew some of them would gladly drag him to the gallows.

He knew people had always been wary of him, and that he was hardly welcome in town. The rest of his posse had done their fair deal of repenting, but him? The best he could do was stay in his room. Let them think he wasn't recovering as well as he did.

But after two weeks, that didn't cut it anymore. Caleb was getting restless. Tommy was the first to notice, and as they had just been having sex Caleb wasn't really in any position to deny it. And it was Tommy who suggested Caleb should talk to someone about it. Someone not him, Seán or Miss Josie.

So here he was, standing rather uneasily in front of the little church.

Inside the evening mass was held, and the entire little chapel fell silent as Caleb walked in.

Somehow the feeling of not being welcome here hurt more than any other occasion. A moment of awkward silence passed, before the preacher cleared his throat.

"Mr. Quinn, if I'm not misinformed. If the good Lord led you here, I'm pleased to have you with us."

"Thank you, Father," Caleb murmured, slowly taking his hat off and keeping his eyes down as he shuffled into the pew at the back of the room.

He only half listened to what the preacher was saying during the mass, murmuring along to the prayers, occasionally lifting his head to see if any other churchgoer was watching him. And they did. And he couldn't blame them.

Mass ended, and the preacher saw his flock out solemnly, till only Caleb remained, still hunched over on the bench, lost in thoughts.

"You are one of the last people I expected to see, Mr. Quinn," the preacher said, standing next to the bench. Caleb nodded him to sit down.

"Can't blame ya, Father. There been some what said it'd be more likely to see the devil in church than Caleb Quinn."

The priest nodded.

"But you are here now," he said, looking at the cross above the altar in thought. "May I inquire why?"

Caleb thought about it and sighed.

"I think I hoped y'could tell me. I'm feeling haunted, and I can't say why. I never felt like this before."

"Are you looking for forgiveness?"

"I'm beyond redemption, Father. I know that much."

"Do you yet seek it?"

Caleb scratched the scar on his neck.

"I... maybe..."

"If you honestly yet seek it means you're not beyond redemption to me."

Another sigh from Caleb.

"Yer new, Father."

"The town needed a man of God. You shot my predecessor."

"No. That was on Kelly's gang, not mine." Caleb rubbed his face. "It doesn't matter now, does it? We almost wiped out the town."

"That you did. And then the good people of Glenvale rebuilt it. Even what was left of your posse joined in."

Caleb quirked a suspicious brow at the preacher.

"Yer makin' it sound as if ya think I'd actually be forgiven."

The priest shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong, Mr. Quinn. I trust in the Lord to deliver justice. If the Lord sees it right for you to be forgiven He will guide you there. If not, He will lead you to the gallows."

Caleb nodded bitterly.

"Father?" he whispered after a while.

"Yes?"

"I..." Caleb chewed his lips for a moment. "They say I was gone for two years."

"So you were. I ought to know; I, in lack of a better word, buried you. Over on Lazarus' Heap."

Caleb's lips twisted into a tired smile.

"So I heard. Ought to be bad luck, being able to visit one's own grave."

The preacher smiled, amused.

"For all I have heard about you, you are still going to do it. But maybe it will give you closure."

With that he rose, and Caleb was alone with his thoughts again. Until he got up, too, turning towards the door, and being a little surprised seeing another visitor to the church still sitting there, just in the shadows at his blind spot while he'd been talking to the priest. Caleb furrowed his brows at the sight.

A man about his age, maybe younger, burly, his head down in silent prayer. Caleb tried to spot anything alarming about him, but ultimately wrote him off as another churchgoer with too much on his mind.

He turned, heading out of the church, turning at the door one more time out of curiosity.

The man was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ought to be bad luck, bein' able to visit one's own grave," Seán murmured, uncomfortably rocking on his heels next to Caleb as they stood by the simple wooden cross.

Caleb tried to grin, amused, but seeing one's own name on a grave marker like that _did_ send a shiver down his spine.

"At least they spelled things right," he mumbled, not quite as nonchalant as he'd intended. "So, am I legally dead?"

"Been, boss. But O'Leary's lookin' into it. Y'know how he is with all them legal things."

Caleb quirked a brow. "Aye, except the financial stuff, he's never been good with money." He paused and hummed in thought. "An' now he's lookin' for gold? Eh, good riddance."

Seán simply nodded. "So, what yer gonna do now?"

"'Bout this lot?" Caleb gestured at the grave. "Keep it. 'Tis a nice spot, an' it might keep some people from doin' the whole 'havin' me dig me own grave' thing."

It would have taken a massive effort in not listening to miss the forced joviality in Caleb's voice. Seán cocked his head at him, words obviously on his tongue already, but he swallowed them. Instead he kicked at the ground and turned away.

"I... ought to get back to town. Stagecoach's 'bout to get ready, y'know."

Caleb nodded, unmoving, not even taking his eyes off the grave as Seán walked away. Only when he was certain Seán was well away, Caleb let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping first, then his entire frame and he sat down on the ground heavily.

"This ain't right," he murmured to himself, rubbing his face. He had hoped this would give him some sort of closure, but it hadn't. Instead it had hammered home the fact that, when it came to the whole 'road ahead' jig, he felt like he was standing on a fuckin' cliff. He'd never been without something that kept him going. He always had something to do. But now... Everyone had moved on with their lives, and all Caleb had was two years of his just missing.

With a long groan he let his head sink to his chest, staring at his knees for a while, trying to make sense of the whole rotten world in general.

This wasn't right. But what was he to do?

"Mr. Quinn?" someone called, and Caleb's head shot up. Up the hill came a mousy little man in a bowler and a collar as stiff as a corpse. And no weapons on him, by all means.

Caleb rose slowly.

"Aye?"

"Nigel Hodgeson, pleasure to meet you."

Caleb reluctantly shook the proffered hand.

"Not a phrase I hear often," he said, absentmindedly wiping his hand on his trousers. "What d'ya want?"

"Your services, Mr. Quinn. In terms of finding someone." The man looked around. "Well now, in fact, I'd like to extend an invitation for you to join me at the hotel first, for this is quite a horrible place to discuss business."

Caleb looked around as well. "If you want me service like that, this'll have to do."

Hodgeson shook his head. "There are some... delicate details."

"Delicate? Are ya sure ya want me for a 'delicate' job?"

Now Hodgeson nodded. "My client insisted on you."

"Your... client?"

"I'm a humble lawyer, Mr. Quinn. And my client is in quite dire need of you."

Caleb scratched the scar on his lip. "So, ya want me to come with ya to a hotel with lotsa living people 'round instead of sayin' what y'gotta say surrounded by the dead?"

Mr. Hodgeson let out a sigh. "Mr. Quinn, my client was most delighted to hear about your return to civilization, and has tasked me with recruiting you for this task as he deems you the man most capable of finding and recovering a person he has tried to find for the past six years now."

Caleb cocked his head. "Yer trying flattery now?"

"No, Mr. Quinn."

With a slightly embarrassed harrumph Caleb cleared his throat. He'd lie if he'd claim he wasn't enjoying this.

"Well," he said, "lead the way then?"

"Gladly."

Mr. Hodgeson turned and walked back towards the town, while Caleb looked back at the grave for a moment more. Hopefully this wouldn't turn out to be the bad luck he felt crawling up his neck.

—

The _Elysium_ was one of the newer buildings in town. Not surprising. The railroad now ran nearby, and the town had earned its fair share of fame. Well, infamy, but out here one couldn't be picky.

Caleb was led through the lush lobby and into a room two stairs up. And he didn't like what he saw one bit: The curtains were drawn tight, and a heavy, dusty smell hung in the air. Without any open window, that was not a surprise. All light in the room came from a single candle on a table in the middle, making shadows dance in the corners. A simple, dark folding screen separated the bed from the rest of the room, and Caleb mused that this mysterious client was residing in said bed.

"If you would kindly sit down, Mr. Quinn," Hodgeson said, waving at the single chair on the small table.

"If this won't take long, I'd rather stand."

He couldn't say what it was, but the way the shadows danced sent a shiver down his spine. Something in his head told him to run, something else made him reach for the revolver on his hip, but both things fell silent when Mr. Hodgeson cleared his throat.

"This might take a bit more than a moment, Mr. Quinn, so, please, do take a seat."

Caleb's fingers twitched for his gun once more, but he sat down. "Is yer client," Caleb gestured vaguely, "not too well with sunlight?"

"Indeed," Mr. Hodgeson said. "At the moment, that is, and we do fear that it will not get better. This is why you are here."

"Ah?"

"Mr. Harper, my client," the lawyer explained, fixating Caleb with piercing grey eyes, "has spent the past six years looking for an old friend. So far, as you might figure, without any success. But as you are here now, and as these times are getting desperate, Mr. Harper would like to hire you to track down said man and bring him here. Unharmed."

Caleb snorted curtly. "Ya got the wrong man if ya want 'unharmed'. Y'know me reputation; it's not really me jig."

"We are certain you will be able to do what we expect of you."

There was a heavy cough just as Caleb was about to say something, and Mr Hodgeson ducked behind the screen. A mumble swept through the air, and just a moment later the lawyer stepped into view again.

"If you could come here for a moment, Mr. Quinn?"

Caleb rose, staggering a little. That was odd.

"Oh, don't worry." Mr. Hodgeson smiled. "It's not contagious."

Caleb steadied himself on the table, shook his bad leg a little —maybe the brace needed some maintenance— and walked over to the bed.

And was immediately taken aback at the sight. The man there was quite younger than him, but it was like looking at a corpse. The heavy shadows over the bed didn't help this impression at all.

"So, this is the famous Deathslinger," the man rasped, eying Caleb intensely. "Do come closer, Mr. Quinn. I don't bite."

"I prefer t'stay here. Can hear ya well enough, y'know."

Harper chuckled, and waved at his lawyer to speak.

"As you can see, Mr. Quinn, my client is a dying man. The person he's looking for is a good friend from his childhood, one of the few good memories he has. And he would like to see the man again before his untimely demise. He will pay you well."

With a heavy sigh Caleb rolled his eyes, snapping his jaw into place.

"What? D'ya expect me t'say something like 'Why didn't ya say so?' or some shite like that?" 

The other two men didn't answer, which prompted another eyeroll. Caleb rubbed his temples, and tried to think straight. And failed. He felt dizzy and annoyed, and his leg was acting up again.

"We reckon, as mentioned before," Hodgeson said almost a little too nicely, "that you are more than likely the only person to find our missing man. Others have tried, but he keeps slipping through their fingers. Unwittingly, we assume, as there should be no ill will for him to hold against Mr. Harper."

A nod from Caleb. Then he waved his hand dismissively.

"Look, I find this whole affair bloody silly, but truth be told, I got nothin' better to do right now. So, I'll bite."

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Quinn," Harper said, before coughing heavily again.

"The man we want you to find is one Christopher Wallace," the lawyer said. "He commonly goes by Kit Wallace."

Caleb cocked his head. "The way yer saying that tells me there's some bloody catch to it."

"There is, unfortunately. My client hasn't seen Mr. Wallace since they were children, so the description might be vague enough for most people to fail spotting him until he has moved on. We do, however, trust in you to do better. You have that reputation, Mr. Quinn."

Cocking his head the other way, Caleb thought about it. "Alright, how much yer paying?" he said, and Hodgeson named a sum that made Caleb sit down on the bed.

"Oh, Mother Mary in her mercy," he murmured, blinking a couple of times. Now his head was definitely swimming.

"Will you do it?" Hodgeson asked.

"For that sum, I'd be a bloody fool to say no. So, whatcha got?"

The lawyer gave Caleb the description of a man like any you could see by the dozen in any town east of the Mississippi. At least the information that Wallace was last seen in New York was a bit more promising.

"That's very vague," Caleb said.

"We are aware. It's most unfortunate. But we _do_ have information that Mr. Wallace has or is moving to this area, which is why my client came here."

"I see." Caleb rose again, dusting his clothes off. "So, I jus' need to get this Wallace here, alive an' unharmed? Guess I can do that." He stretched, and looked back at Mr. Harper, who gave him an odd look and smile that made Caleb feel naked and exposed for some reason.

"We thank you, Mr. Quinn," the lawyer said, and led Caleb out of the room again, closing the door behind him.

The light in the corridor hurt his eyes, and an odd clicking sound echoed in Caleb's ears. He rubbed his face and turned towards the stairs after taking a deep breath.

This was weird, to put it mildly. But it was good pay, although the job shaped up to be tough, given how little he had about this Mr. Wallace.

He was sunken in thought, as he headed back downstairs, so sunken that he nearly tripped on the steps.

No, that wasn't just him being distracted by the problem at hand.

Something was certainly amiss, but Caleb wasn't certain if something had happened in that room (there was that odd, heavy air after all,) or if he was just still a bit unsteady on his legs. In either case, he found it wise to sit down in one of the comfy chairs in the lobby and close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

  
"Mr... Quinn, right?"

Caleb squirmed a little as something soft patted his good cheek. He screwed one eye open, and the face of a woman his age came into focus. And he'll be damned if he ever saw someone looking more worried at him than her.

"Hnng?" he went, pulling himself into a less slumped position.

"Are you alright? You fell asleep almost the moment you sat down."

"Hnng?" Caleb managed again. "Oh. That. Guess it's still a bit too early for me after all." He rubbed his head and caught the woman staring at him in fascination. "What?"

"I'm sorry. It's..." the woman sighed. "I didn't expect you to have such pretty eyes."

Caleb blinked, the gears in his head turning audibly before creaking to a hold.

"...what?"

The woman blushed.

"I'm sorry." She buried her face in her hands, turning away. Only for a moment, because with one deep draw of breath and a full-body shudder to compose herself, she turned back and smiled a little awkwardly.

"So, you are alright? They say you are a strong man, so seeing you slump down like that got me worried."

"I'm... fine." Only slowly Caleb's brain got back on track. "I think. Ya really don't gotta worry, Miss...?"

"Oh. Catherine. Catherine O'Malley."

Caleb nodded.

"Don't think I need to introduce meself," he said, slowly getting up. Miss Catherine looked as if she was going to push him back down, but decided against it.

For good measure, Caleb sent the other guests a nasty glare, making them mind their own business.

"Will you be alright?" Miss Catherine asked as Caleb straightened his clothes.

"Heh, ain't ya a right worrywart." He grinned, but the grin shifted into a genuine smile upon seeing her honest anxiety. "I'll be fine, miss. Bounced back from worse."

"So I've heard. I... umm, I ought to head back to work. You take care."

Maybe a little more hurried than reasonable, Miss Catherine headed to where Caleb knew the hotel nearly connected to the saloon. Standing there for a moment longer and looking after her quite bemused, Caleb ultimately shrugged and headed out through the main door.

He needed some fresh air, and to pay the post office a visit.

—

"Will he find our man?" Mr. Hodgeson asked, observing Caleb from the upstairs window.

"He's stubborn enough, Mr. Hodgeson," Harper said, reclining in his bed.

"Don't you worry he might catch on to things?"

Harper laughed darkly. "Mr. Hodgeson, this is Caleb Quinn we're talking about. He might have a lucrative idea now and then, but he's dumb as a brick and gullible as a sheep."

The lawyer pondered that.

"Well," he said, steepling his fingers in consideration, "he's already got a nice lot on Lazarus' Heap..."

—

Glenvale's little post office was quiet at this hour of the morning. It was just after the stage coach left, so Caleb found the office vacant with the exception of a gentleman reading the newspaper, and the clerk behind his desk, nose in a book.

"Mornin', Aaron," Caleb greeted, and was met with silence. He looked at the young clerk and let the clock's ticking fill the air for a moment, before he snapped his fingers against the book, making the young man sit up startled.

" _Mornin', Aaron_ ," Caleb repeated, grinning amused. "Good book I take it?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, sir. It's Stevenson's new one. It's really great."

Caleb tried to look at the title before Aaron managed to stow the book away, but failed. Instead he shrugged. "I'm still on Monte Cristo," he said, and the clerk nodded.

"Oh, good one, that one. So, umm, what can I do for you?"

"Ya got the telegraph hooked up again? Heard something knocked it over a few days back."

Aaron nodded. "Oh, yes, it's up and running perfectly fine. You want to send a message?"

Now Caleb nodded. "To New York. To a Mister Emmett Blayne. B-L-A-Y-N-E, Emmett with two M's an' two T's."

Aaron nodded and shifted around, setting things up. "Alright, what's the message?" Then he stopped. "Wait. _The_ Emmett Blayne? 'Merciful' Blayne? The bounty hunter?"

"He owes me one, y'know." Caleb smirked, leaning on the counter.

"Oh. I was surprised you'd know him."

"Pff, comes with the job, Aaron. Maybe I'll tell ya the stories someday."

Aaron nodded and got back to his machine.

"Well then."

"Need information on Christopher or Kit Wallace Stop Moved to Glenvale or Area Stop Urgent Stop-" The machine ticked away, and finally Aaron pushed his chair back. 

"Now you'll have to wait."

Caleb nodded and rummaged his pockets for the payment. "I'll be at me room at the saloon. Make sure I get any answer as quickly as possible."

The young clerk nodded, and Caleb headed back out, running straight into someone at the door.

"Watch it," he growled, before he recognized the face. "Matthews. How's the missus?"

Matthews, a mountain of a man with skin like leather, grinned.

"Doin' swell for someone eating for two or three. Ya been sending out letters?"

Caleb nodded. "Got a bit of business."

Matthews gleamed. "Good to hear. Annie's been sayin' we oughta find something fer ya to do."

Caleb quirked a brow, but let it slide. "And you? 'Bout to send somethin' out?"

"Pickin' things up. Gotta see if Finley wrote back."

"Oh? Heh, I heard he hasn't been in town for weeks now."

"He's over in Central City," Matthews explained, stepping aside as a elderly couple tried to get into the building. "And," Matthews cocked his head in thought. "Can I ask ya somethin', Quinn? It's 'bout Finley."

"Mhn?"

"He's planning to look into a bit of land near Sorrow Creek. I mean, it's still good land, even with what happened there, and them Indians don't go near that gulch t' begin with, and..."

Caleb groaned darkly. "Finn's seventeen. An' don't ya think that when them Indians don't go there and after all the shite that happened there, it's a fuckin' bad idea to prance in like a doe with a deathwish?"

"That's what I've been tellin' Finley, but ya know him."

"Unfortunately. So... What exactly d'ye want of me?"

"I told him yer back, and... maybe ya could tell him to cut that shite out? I mean, he listens to _you_."

Caleb waved his hand dismissively. "Marginally. But be me guest. Tell me what he says once he answers."

"Of course."

Caleb bid his farewell, and headed back to the saloon. It was all a bit much for one day, and there hadn't been that much of the day as such yet. He really needed a drink.  
The saloon was empty at this hour; only Miss Josie and her nephew were present, with the boy sweeping the floor while Miss Josie bustled back and forth between the main room and the rooms in the back of the building.

Caleb nodded in greeting toward the boy as he entered and headed straight for the bar, reaching over and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He was just about to bring the drink to his lips when Miss Josie snatched it from his hands, putting a cup of steaming hot coffee down in front of him.

"Ye need _this_ more, Quinn," she said, downing the whiskey herself. "Ye look 'bout as bad as when Seán an' Tommy carried ye in'ere two weeks ago."

"Ah, aren't ya just the most charmin' thing to come down from the fuckin' Highlands?" Caleb grinned, and sipped the coffee. Miss Josie was right. He felt horrible right now, and he began to suspect that whatever in that hotel room that had smelled so off _had_ something to do with it. "How did ya have coffee ready before I even walked in?"

"The new lass told me. Have ye know, Quinn, we're sorta sharing the kitchen with the new hotel, an' she saw ye hangin' 'bout in the lobby like a wet haversack."

It took Caleb's brain a moment to process the information.

"Miss... Catherine, right?" he asked.

Miss Josie nodded, making Caleb grin naughtily.

"She's no _lass_ , Miss Josie."

"Oh, she's just a wee bit younger than the two o' us. It counts."

"Heh." Caleb stoically nursed his coffee, before putting the cup down. "So she's workin' in the kitchen?"

Miss Josie gave him a rotten glare. "I knows that look, Caleb Quinn. Ye been thinkin' she's one o' me lasses."

"Ya certainly made it sound like it," Caleb defended himself, and Miss Josie shook her head.

"She's far too much a proper lady fer that, I haves ye know."

"Is she now?"

A nod. "I mean, she's no rich daddy's daughter or anything, but she gots a good upbringing, that one."

"Heh. Wonder what brings someone like that to a town like Glenvale."

"Yer readin' me thoughts, Quinn."

"Ya gonna needle it out of her?"

"Oh, shush, if she wants to tell me, I'll listen. If not, then not."

"You'll just ease her into tellin' ya, won't ya."

"It's not a sin, innit?"

Caleb chuckled and almost got back to his coffee, when Miss Josie leaned onto the bar, her bosom very much in his face.

"Ah, but talkin' 'bout me lasses an' what they do..." she purred. "Have ye joined our ranks without tellin' me?"

Maybe it was a good thing Caleb hadn't gotten back to drinking yet, because he was certain he'd have choked on his coffee upon that.

" _What?_ " he spluttered regardless.

"Just pullin' yer legs, Quinn. But there _is_ a guy waitin' fer ye up in yer room. I don't think he wants sex, but ye never know."

Caleb frowned and folded his hands.

"And ya didn't tell me straight away why?"

"Cause ye needed the coffee first."

With another frown Caleb got up.

"Ya know I hate when ya let people in me room."

He was already half-way up the stairs when Miss Josie responded.

"Couldn't really say 'No', y'know. He's a bloody US Marshal."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Additional Warnings: Drugs, Mention of drug abuse, Canon Typical violence, mild disassociation)

There are several ways to add insult to injury.

Having a bloody marshal waiting for one in one's room for no discernible reason is injury. The insult is having said marshal be the weird guy from church.

Caleb frowned, leaning against the door frame as the man rose from a chair by the window.

"You must have been having a busy morning, Mr. Quinn," the marshal greeted, and Caleb sneered.

"What d'ye want?"

"Talk."

"About?" Caleb asked, hand resting on his revolver. Something about this man was unsettling, and it wasn't just that he was a marshal.

"A friend asked me to warn you. He fears for your life." The marshal eyed the revolver wearily, before seeking Caleb's gaze. Caleb smirked.

"Y'know, you..."

"Wouldn't be the first marshal you've killed?" the marshal nodded. "I'm aware."

"Is that why yer here? Justice for a fallen brethren? He got in our way and..."

The man raised a hand. "Are you willing to hear me out?"

Another frown. Caleb still wasn't feeling too well, and now he was frankly getting annoyed. "Name a good reason."

The marshal eyed him for a moment as if waiting for something. Then he licked his lips in thought. "Henry Bayshore," he said dryly, and Caleb's hand was on his gun immediately. 

He didn't get to shoot. He didn't even know if he'd drawn his revolver. Everything went black before that.

  
Caleb didn't know how much time had passed when he came to again. Only thing he was fairly certain of was that he was fucking angry. Correction: that was one of two things he was fairly certain of. The other was that he was neatly tied to his own bed.

"Sorry, Quinn," someone said. Miss Josie. She was sitting in the chair next to the bed, knitting as if all was normal. "I trust Marshal Jacobs 'ere wi' his message more than I trust ye wi' yer temper."

Caleb gave her a look of pure outrage at such betrayal, but Miss Josie just twirled a needle menacingly. "Now will ye 'ear the marshal out?" she asked cooly, watching Caleb struggle against his bonds.

With a growl that faded into a groan Caleb finally nodded, glaring over at the marshal. "Spit it out."

The marshal nodded, calmly rolling a cigarette. "My name is Dan Jacobs. I'm a US Marshal over in Lander County..."

"That's in Nevada, innit?" Caleb interrupted. "Yer quite some way from home, Marshal."

Marshal Jacobs nodded. "I got business in Lincoln. And about a week ago I received a message from a friend of mine. Ethan Murdock."

"Never heard that name," Caleb snarled.

"But he has heard of you, Mr. Quinn."

"He and dozens of others. What's yer point?"

"He's worried for your life, Mr. Quinn."

A long, annoyed growl followed, and Caleb rolled his eyes, tugging on the bounds again. "That's all nice an' fuckin' dandy, but..."

"Will you hear me out, Mr. Quinn?"

Caleb glared, but nodded. Miss Josie's needle twirling while her eyes were fixed on his crotch might or might not have had a part in that decision.

"Five years ago I met Ethan Murdock," Marshal Jacobs said. "Not on a friendly basis, though. He had broken into one of Bayshore's offices."

This got Caleb's eyes to sparkle. "I think I'm starting to like this Mr. Murdock." He grinned a toothy grin.

"Oh, you'd get along well. He's a reporter on his own terms, and after his arrest Ethan confidentially told me of evidence of severe foul-play in some of Bayshore's recent business activities. Ethan was determined to bring Bayshore down. I wrote it off as a mad whim, if not vile jealousy or plain slander, but then someone made an attempt on Ethan's life, and his rooms and office were ransacked."

Another nod, this one much more stoically. Caleb was listening intently.

"I don't think it will surprise you that these incidents destroyed the evidence Ethan had. Most of them; otherwise, I would not have believed him at all."

"Take it there wasn't enough left, however?"

The marshal shook his head. "The charges concerning the break-in were dropped. Much to Ethan's dismay, however."

"I get him. Bayshore's been up to something an' arranged for that," Caleb gave an angry twist to his mouth. 

"Ethan thought so too. He was forced to keep things low-key from then on, and... and I think this will interest you most; he found out about the planned acquisition of Hellshire just a little too late to inform you. This is why Ethan's so eager to protect you, now that you are back."

Caleb simply groaned and rolled his eyes again. "So, what exactly does this Mr Murdock want to protect me from? Bayshore's dead."

"You've been informed his body was never recovered from Hellshire?" Marshal Jacobs gave Caleb a scrutinizing look. "You have. Look, Ethan thinks Bayshore's gone for good, and so do I. But he had children who are just as bad as he was. And Ethan suspects that Bayshore's successor will want to settle some things."

" _Tsk_ ," Caleb shook his head. "I appreciate the concern, but I can very well look after meself."

The marshal and Miss Josie exchanged meaningful glances, and Miss Josie looked coldly at Caleb.

"Tell me what time it is, Quinn."

"...what? Noon, or something..."

"It's quarter past midnight, Quinn," Miss Josie said, picking up a different ball of yarn.

"Quarter past... Oh fuck you." With an exhausted groan Caleb sank deeper into the pillows.

"Look, Quinn, we both know ye would have shot the marshal wi'out second thought. Can't have that, what wi' him bein' here to save yer arse. So when the lass told me ye was all dizzy an' dozy, I put a lil' somethin' in yer coffee. Would have put it in yer whiskey if not fer that."

"And threw out the whole bloody bottle afterwards?" Caleb quirked a brow.

"Desperate times, desperate measures, Quinn. Would have put it on yer tab."

"How are we friends again?" Caleb groaned, "Heh, didn't ya just say I'd have shot him without second thought? What would ya've done if I hadn't keeled over jus' in time?"

"Oh, there been 'nough in that coffee to knock a normal man out before he'd reach them stairs. So I figured ye'd be out cold around the time ye reach fer yer iron." Josie puffed her chest proudly. "An' I been standing behind ye, just in case."

She grinned and Caleb grimaced, muttering several curses. Then he glared at the marshal again. "So, what does this Murdock think will happen?"

"He suspects they'll put Kelly on your trail. He's still alive and still has his gang. And got quite a bone to pick with you."

"The feeling is mutual, y'know," Caleb squirmed a little. "Look, the warning _is_ appreciated, but I _can_ look after meself, unless someone turns out to be some backstabbin' old hen."

Miss Josie smiled cockily. "Can a lass quell yer wrath by cookin' yer favourite later?"

Caleb pondered this. "If ya swear it's not poisoned."

"Swear it on yer cock," Miss Josie singsonged, making Caleb avoid the marshal's surprised gaze, before clearing his throat.

"Aye, that will do." He looked back at the marshal. "Tell me, Marshal, yer a man of the law, what can ya tell me 'bout Kelly's whereabouts?"

Marshal Jacobs licked his lips. "I thought you'd never ask. Last time anyone heard from Mason Kelly and his gang was little more'n a month ago, at the border to California."

"Heh. If Kelly's got any bit o' sense in his head he made off to Canada or Mexico as soon as he heard I'm back."

Miss Josie smiled knowingly at Caleb. "So when do ye expect him to show his face in Glenvale?"

"'Bout next Thursday."

The marshal chuckled at that and rose. And then his face hardened. "Do be careful, Mr. Quinn. It's only our guess at what will be done, but Ethan and I, we're fairly certain that it _will_ be done."

Caleb exhaled in defeat. "Tell Mr. Murdock I'll heed his warning."

A nod. "I will. Good Night, Mr. Quinn." Another nod, this time at Miss Josie. "Miss Josie."

Moments ticked past after the marshal left.

"So," Caleb drawled. "Are ya going to untie me now? Me shoulders are getting sore."

Miss Josie smiled, put her knitting to the side and leaned over to undo the knots. Caleb sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists.

"What, no quips 'bout 'enjoying the view a bit longer'?" he teased, but his face quickly fell upon seeing Miss Josie looking so distressed. "C'mon, Josie, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"'Nothing' me fine Irish arse," he muttered. "The Josie McKee I know would've told anyone with such a yarn to go to Hell."

Miss Josie smiled a strained smile. "I almost did, Quinn. But..." She sighed.

"But?"

"Ye wanna know the truth? I'm worried fer ya." Miss Josie shook her head. "An' I don't mean in any 'Ye cannot watch yer own back all the time' thing." Slowly, and so carefully it made Caleb worry, Miss Josie sat down on the edge of the bed. "Listen, Quinn. Ye knows I come in here when ye sleep to see 'bout yer light," she nodded at the candle on the nightstand. "Ye almost burned down me establishment already."

Caleb blew a raspberry. "That was one time."

"Aye. But it's all I got. Me girls too."

"An' it's not even yours."

"Oh, tut." Miss Josie whacked her finger, "I'm keepin' an eye on it and I'm running it. At least till Newport shows his arse in Glenvale again, thank you very much."

This was greeted with an amused huff. "One of these days I'll figure where ya buried him."

"I didn't _bury_ him." Miss Josie took a deep, sorrowful breath, and sought Caleb's eyes. "All joking aside, I'm really worried fer ya." She reached up to tug a strand of hair behind Caleb's ear, gently rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone. Caleb held his breath. There was maybe just one other thing Miss Josie could do to hammer home how dire she deemed the situation.

"Caleb." There it was. "Ye've been crying." Miss Josie shook her head. "I've never seen ye like that, but it scared me. An' ye wouldn't wake up when I tried. Are ye alright?"

Caleb squirmed a little, edging away from Josie. "Am fine," he mumbled. Miss Josie didn't buy it.

"Look at me," she said gently, caressing his cheek again. "I've known ye fer me whole life. I've seen yer best and worst. An' right now I see yer scared out o' yer wits."

Snapping his jaw back into place and biting his lip, Caleb looked away. He wasn't someone to let others on to what he was feeling (unless it was rage), but Miss Josie had always been one of the few people to see right through him. And she was right.

"How d'ya do that, Josie?" he murmured, still not looking at her.

"Known ye me whole life, just said so."

Caleb smiled halfheartedly. "Nightmares, that's all..." Again, Josie didn't buy it. For a moment, Caleb tried to stare her down, without any success. He sighed, looking away. "Ya know them nightmares where ya get so scared ya wake up cryin' only to realize how fuckin' silly yer brain's being? This wasn't one o' those."

Miss Josie shuffled a little closer, laying a gentle hand on his thigh.

"'Twas...," Caleb continued, struggling with finding the right words. "''Twas like I was remembering things, but that don't make sense."

"If ye want to talk 'bout it, I'm here."

Slowly, Caleb let himself fall back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling for a while.

"I was in this... something. Looked Japanese... And there was this lass. Black, weird clothing, like she was runnin' round in her bloomers..." Caleb ran a hand through his hair. "She was scared of me. And... I dunno, I think I tried to tell her I knows who she is. No... I _did_ tell her. But... it was to calm her down, not to... She was so scared. And then there was this... thing...," he wriggled his fingers, "Like some fucking spider the size o' a house. An' it was angry. Like furious. At me. For... I think not killing that woman. I told it to go fuck itself, an'... how I knew what it did to me?"

Miss Josie gave his leg a gentle squeeze.

"Don't make much sense, does it?" Caleb said, forlorn. "But I feel like it happened. And then... something grabbed me, choked me, an'... things crawled under me clothes and...skin... and..." he absentmindedly reached into his shirt, tracing fingers over the new scars. "Then something went right through me chest... this _thing's_ claw or somethin'. An' I knew I was in for something worse than death... but..."

"But?"

"Then this girl picked up me gun... Ya could see she never even held one... I think she wanted to help..."

"What happened?"

Caleb smiled wryly. "Put the spear right through me heart, she did." He patted his chest. "Last thing I heard was her shouting she's sorry, and there was this screech of betrayal and... I just wanted to be back home..."

Caleb bit back a sob, rubbing his arm over his eyes. Miss Josie gently pulled him into a hug and caressed his back while he buried his face against her neck. They sat like that for a while, until Caleb pulled back, taking a ragged, heavy breath.

"Look at me, soakin' yer dress crying me bloody eyes out. What would people think o' me?"

"That ye'd shoot their guts out if they go makin' a funny comment 'bout it."

Caleb gave a sniffling laugh, rubbing his eyes again.

"Prolly would. But... I'm not jokin'. That shite was fuckin' frightening." He pulled up his good leg, resting his head on the knee. "Josie?"

"Hmm?"

"D'ye think that's what happened when I was gone?"

"It doesn't sound real, does it?"

"...No... but..."

"Hey," Josie reached up to Caleb's cheek again, lifting his head to look at her. "All I know is ye was gone fer two years as if the earth opened up and swallowed ye whole. And then ye showed up just as suddenly. I think a lotta things are possible here."

Caleb nodded quietly, falling back into the pillows.

"Will ye let that keep ye down?" Josie smirked and got up.

"Heh, naw. It came fuckin' close, though." Caleb smiled softly, scratching his chest. "I'll need some time to wrap me head 'round it."

Josie nodded gently. "I think ye should try an' rest proper."

Caleb nodded back. "Guess so..." Then he remembered something. "Did any messages come in while I was out?"

"Oh. Aye." Josie took a small envelope from the nightstand and handed it over. "Aaron brought in a telegram fer ye."

With a suspicious glare Caleb inspected the envelope. Good, at least he could still trust Josie not to read his things. He tore the message open, reading.

"Well then," he finally murmured, scratching his head.

"Somethin' amiss, Quinn?"

Caleb looked up. "Nothin'. Just asked an old acquaintance for advice on something."

"Anything I should be worried 'bout?"

"Naw. But I'll be headin' to Omaha in a couple o' days. He wants t' meet with me."

"Yer back to yer ol' tricks, ain't ye?"

Caleb smirked wickedly. "Ya know best it's a good idea t' keep me busy."

Josie smiled back, nudged his shoulder and bid him goodnight.

Caleb turned the message over in his hands, pondering. To say that there was a lot on his mind was putting things mildly. He had planned to not tell anyone about that nightmare, but all things considered he felt... relieved? That Josie had known something was wrong. He knew he would have despised anyone else seeing him cry. But God knows it _did_ frighten him, as nonsensical as that dream had been.

Nevertheless, his hand wandered under his shirt again, tracing the scars. It was impossible to have happened, wasn't it? He'd remember more of... _anything_ that happened in the past two years if that had been the case, right?

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the far corner, half expecting this thing from his nightmare to manifest from the shadows. It wasn't the relief he might have hoped for when it didn't.

All things considered, he'd have to wait and see about this matter. He focused on the message in his hand again.

Blayne wrote he'd meet Caleb in Omaha to tell him about this Mr. Wallace. And Caleb wondered if he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew.

  
Downstairs, the saloon was packed.

Miss Josie stood on the gallery, surveying the crowd below as per usual. She always had good judgment when it came to people, and at this hour of the night, being able to pick out the troublemakers was essential.

And tonight there were a few new faces she couldn't say she liked. Something about them set her on edge.

There was this guy in the dark poncho by the piano who tried a little too hard not to let anyone notice that his eyes were continuously flicking over the doors upstairs. And it wasn't 'cause he was deciding whether or not to get it on with one of the girls; Josie was certain about that.

Josie also felt someone's eyes on her the whole time she was in the main room, but couldn't spot the person looking at her. Which was worrisome.

"What's eating ya, Miss Josie?" someone asked next to her, and Miss Josie turned.

"Hey, Charlie. Funny seein' ye here."

"Wanna keep the one eye I got on Quinn, y'know," Charlie grinned, flipping a finger against his eye-patch after adjusting his clothes proper.

"Ye been in the wrong room fer that," Miss Josie grinned. "He's well. Hopefully sleepin' now."

Charlie nodded. "He's got that creepy aura 'round him since he's back."

Josie nodded. Charlie was one of those 'spiritualists', and sometimes he said things that made Miss Josie wonder if he wasn't on to something with all that.

"Don't he always have a 'creepy aura' 'round him?" Miss Josie quipped, and Charlie smiled.

"That's on account o' the things he does. No, I mean... he's got the devil on his back more than ever, it feels like."

"Yer gonna put down yer tarot cards fer him?"

"Not without his permission. Y'know it won't work well if he's not alright with it." Charlie gave Miss Josie a scrutinizing glance.

"What?"

"You're really worried 'bout something, Miss Josie."

Josie just wrinkled her nose. "Oh, take an inspired guess. Yer right, something's off with Quinn. But does that surprise ye? He's been gone fer two bloody years, an' now he shows up an' has no mem'ries of it whatsoever."

A nod. "Y'know how some folks say he jus' buggered off to New York or San Francisco for morphine or opium or something? Wonder what they'd be sayin' now."

" _You_ go and ask 'em, Charlie; ye shoot three of 'em."

"Eh, don't think they'll be talkin' to me after that..."

Josie chuckled, and turned her attention to the crowd below again.

"Charlie?" she hushed.

"Hmm?"

"I need ye to keep yer eye on that bloke in the dark poncho by the piano."

"What he do?"

Josie explained, and Charlie furrowed his brows.

"Think he's after Quinn?"

"Would it surprise ye?" Josie drummed her fingers on the banister. "How many people got a bone t'pick with'im?"

"Enough to empty a fuckin' graveyard. Alright, I'll stay on his heels."

Nodding in thanks, Josie headed down to the bar. The night was still young.

Upstairs, Caleb tossed and turned in his bed, trying to get comfortable in at least the slightest bit and failing miserably. Maybe it was remembering that nightmare and trying to make sense of it; maybe it was something different, but something had set him on edge. Rather groggily he hobbled out of bed, checked the door and the windows, and finally reached for his revolver. Still loaded, all good to go.

With the weapon placed on the nightstand, Caleb laid back down, blowing out the candles. He had to focus on something else. Anything. His mind was a mess, and whatever Josie had put in his coffee still lingered in his system.

Yet he tried in vain. There wasn't much to think about when it came to this Mr. Wallace. He could always ask at the Post Office; maybe he should have done that to begin with. Did they have a marshal in Glenvale again? He had somehow managed not to check for it this entire time. If they had, maybe he could ask there, too, before heading to Omaha.

Though, maybe he shouldn't do any of that. Emmett Blayne wasn't a man of many words, and when someone like that asks you to meet him to discuss a matter, something's deeply amiss.

The other problem was Marshal Jacobs' warning, though that was the smaller one. If someone wanted to pick a bone with him, Caleb would be ready. Bayshore and his ilk weren't as clever as they thought, so there was a likely advantage. At least _that_ problem was going somewhere.

With an annoyed grunt, Caleb turned over again, wincing briefly as pain shot up his leg. He's really ought to stop it with the sudden movements in bed. He grunted again and closed his eyes, nagging himself to get some sleep.

That was when he felt the cold breeze against his cheek and heard a window rattle.

His eyes shot open and he found himself outside an odd building, snow falling around him.

Caleb blinked, once, twice, before rubbing his eyes. He looked down at himself. He was fully dressed, his overcoat heavy with snow and the Redeemer in his hands. This was a dream, wasn't it? Sure, he could feel the breeze against his skin and the cold biting into his lungs with every breath, but ... This _had_ to be a dream. Well, at least he had fallen asleep.

He looked around. And his brows furrowed.

He was standing at the open doors to a building unlike any he had ever seen before. Next to him stood some massive metal boxes he figured were meant for trash, at least if he interpreted the odd bags next to them correctly. Something in him wanted to investigate the material, but something else, something stronger, urged him on to do what he came here for.

No. Not 'came' here for. Was _brought_ here for.

He stepped into the building, an unreal, flickering light illuminating narrow, tiled corridors, crammed with unadorned beds and wheelchairs. Was this some odd kind of hospital? He bent down to pick up something from the ground. A folder. Seems his hunch was right, this was a hospital, but...

His eyes fell on the date in the files. That couldn't be right...

Something made a bang down the corridor to the left, and he dropped the file, turning, half-curious as to what had caused that sound, half... _taken over_ by an odd hunting instinct he'd never felt before when tracking down a mark. That had always just been business. This was like… a _need_.

Windows rattled in the cold air as he hobbled steadily along the empty halls; broken, loose tiles clicking under his boots. There was no one in sight as he came to stop at an odd contraption, an engine of sorts. Caleb wanted to reach out to touch it; to inspect it, but it was like his hands were glued to his gun.

Then he caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. So there _was_ someone here, trying haphazardly to hide themself behind the dirty bed in the corner. Caleb wanted to prompt the person to come out, but his tongue disobeyed him. Instead, he stepped forward, eager to bring whoever was there to the ground. 

A part of himself wondered why.

He lunged forward, taking the young man in hiding by surprise and slashing at his side with the gun's bayonet. The young man gasped out in pain, stumbling forward. 

Caleb blinked, shocked. The guy couldn't be older than thirty, and by all means—as outlandish as his clothes looked—he was some sort of bank or post office clerk or something, maybe an accountant. Not really the kind of guy to have a bounty on his head.

What was going on?

The man took off.

Something urged Caleb on to give chase, and his feet seemed to move on their own, heading after the young man. Fingers twitching, Caleb raised his gun, and wanted to slap himself for it. There was no clear shot to be made here, and what had that guy done to begin with? Something told Caleb he had to hunt and... sacrifice the... meat...?

Caleb hesitated.

What sort of fuckin' shite was that?

He shook his head and, with all the willpower he could muster, lowered the gun just as the young man ducked into a doorway. Something roared in Caleb's ears, something angry.

And then there was another sound. A horn of some sort, and the roar grew angrier. Again his feet moved on their own, and he turned a corner. There was someone in front of him, and the sign made Caleb as angry as the roar in his ears did.

Bayshore.

No. Wait.

That was impossible, he told himself. And blinked. Bayshore's form shifted, flickered, and changed into a young woman, a really nice-looking one at that, with bare, tattooed arms and wearing next to nothing. Still the voice in Caleb's head tried to tell him that that was Bayshore.

What the fuck was going on?

Caleb edged closer to her, his hands raising his weapon on their own again. He tried to fight it; he wanted answers, not blood. The woman just stood and stared at him until he was maybe one or two steps away. Then she grabbed at something leaning against the wall, pulling it down, and Caleb felt a hard hit against his head.

He staggered and saw the woman run the other way through blurred vision. Some kind of alarm rang out, and he tried to steady himself, looking around, when he felt four sharp stings in his neck. He lost balance again and sank to his knees.

He couldn't breath.

The gun dropped from his hands, and he dug his fingers into his throat as if trying to pry something out of it.

Something was choking him.

He coughed, tried to cry out; but only a rasping gasp escaped his mouth. And then the lights around him grew darker.

For a moment he was certain he was losing consciousness, but the angry roar in his head made him realize that couldn't be the case.

This something was angry. Disappointed in him; in his performance. Dismayed at his disobedience. Displeased with his failure.

A dark, heavy fog rolled in, surrounding Caleb, engulfing him.

...No...

And the world around him twisted; the shadows grew, spider-like tendrils bearing down on him, intent on tearing him apart and worse...

He woke with a choked gasp.

Rain drummed against the windows, running down the glass in thick drops, and Caleb laid on the floor, wrapped in his blanket with a horrible pain in his head. Sitting up carefully, he reached for his forehead, and hissed in pain as his fingers touched a bloody spot. The blood on the nightstand explained the rest.

That was going to be a headache for a while.

Caleb gave himself a quick check to see if the wound was worse than it looked, and finding that he was otherwise fine—no cuts or anything on his throat—he pulled himself onto the bed again. He'd still have the doc take a look at his head. Better safe than sorry.

He waited for a moment to see if anyone would come to check on him, and let out a soft sigh when that wasn't the case. 'Twas likely too early in the morning. The rain made it impossible to tell, and Caleb had forgotten to wind up his pocketwatch the night before.

With another sigh, he slowly laid back down.

He'd had a lot of weird dreams in the past, but this one... Something about it... _scared_ him. The place; the people; the pain... and again... that ungodly, otherworldly spider thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Attention: There is sex in this chapter, second half, starting is marked with ~+~))

"You are really overdoing it with the whole 'Luck of the Irish' thing, Quinn," Doc Yeung scolded, patching up the wound on Caleb's head. "A little more to here, and you'd finally move to that lovely lot of yours on Lazarus' Heap."

Caleb grumbled a little. "I know; I know. Miss Josie already gave me both ears full 'bout it."

"You insisted that it's not that bad."

Another grumble. "I gots pretty good judgment of these things."

"You mean like the time Kelly shot you in the arse and you said it could be worse?"

"He mighta been aiming a bit higher, so, yes, coulda been worse."

Doc Yeung shook his head with a sigh, cleaning up the stitches. "There we are."

Caleb begrudgingly murmured a 'thank you' and made to get back up, but the doc laid a hand on his shoulder.

"One more thing, Quinn," Yeung said. "You are fraying at the edges like I've never seen you do before. I know you don't want to hear it, but as your doctor I advise you to take things slow."

"The concern's appreciated, Doc."

"And I'd like to check you through proper while you're here."

Caleb rolled his eyes dramatically and unbuttoned his shirt. "Ain't you a worrywart today..."

Again Yeung shook his head. "After what happened to you, Quinn? You are something like a friend, and I worry for my friends."

"Oh, fine, fine." Despite the annoyed tone, Caleb smiled. A little crooked and tired, but a smile nonetheless.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Yeung asked in the casual tone of someone who knew exactly that there was something more he should know, but tried to uphold a certain level of politeness.

"How much did Josie tell ya?"

"The rough outlines. Is it your first sleepless night?"

Caleb let out a small growl, twitching away from the doctor's touch. "I slept, alright. Just not well."

"Quinn. Miss Josie wouldn't have told me about you suffering from nightmares if she didn't think it isn't serious."

"I know, I know..." Caleb ran his fingers through his hair with a defeated sigh. "Yer all worryin' too much. I'll be fine."

"You been gone for more than two years and have no recollection of said time. And now you're having nightmares that get Miss Josie worried. That isn't what most people would call 'fine'." Yeung shook his head. "Now, say 'ah'."

Caleb obliged. At least the doc didn't pester him any further when he was conducting these parts of the medical check-up.

"You've got a bit of a fever again, Quinn," Yeung ultimately announced, putting his equipment to the side. "Maybe there's the reason for your nightmares."

"Heh, if I'm lucky... Are ya goin' to tell me I ought to stay in bed?"

"You wouldn't do so, now, would you?"

"Can't do. Have to go to Omaha. Can't delay that." Caleb put his shirt back on and leaned forward. "Look, Doc. I _do_ appreciate ya caring 'bout rotten old me. But I need to get on with me life, too. An' this is part of that."

"I'm not asking you to hole yourself up in your room for the rest of your days, Quinn." Yeung sighed. "I'm just telling you to be careful. Seeing how..." The doc looked quietly at Caleb for a long moment, before shaking his head. "Just be careful." He smiled wryly. "Doctor's order."

—

Stepping off the train in Omaha felt... weird, and Caleb couldn't say why.

He had a hunch, however. Last time he had been here, he'd discovered that Bayshore had stolen his inventions and sold them as his own, for which Caleb had stormed his then-boss's office nearby and nearly killed the man. One small pebble to set off a landslide, all things considered.

Caleb let out a heavy sigh. He had promised himself (and Miss Josie) to stop dwelling on the past so much. He had a future to shape, hadn't he? Caleb wasn't too certain about that. This whole ordeal with Wallace was a godsend; it was something to do, something to focus on, but; and Caleb hated admitting it; once the job was done, what then? Hard to shape a future for oneself if you closed down all paths you could have gone down. This thought haunted him.

 _I'll burn that bridge when I come to it_ , Caleb mused and watched the people around him for a bit before fishing the telegram from his pocket. Blayne really could have just picked him up from the station. Or come to Glenvale, thinking about it.

For all Caleb had found, it was an address at the edge of town. Cheap hotel, by the looks of it. Well, he couldn't blame Blayne, really. The sorry sod was coming all the way from New York to talk about this Wallace; might as well save some money on the lodgings.

With a small shrug, Caleb shouldered the package holding his Redeemer (you never knew what trouble you might run into, after all,) and walked away from the station, occasionally nodding a 'Good Morning' at passersby.

His bloody leg would be sore by the time he arrived at Blayne's hotel, so the old coot's information better be worth it. He didn't really have the money to get there by other means, and as he was passing by a small, rather nice looking hotel, he felt his mood go sour. With an annoyed grunt he picked up his speed and stalked past the entrance, when a familiar voice called out behind him.

"Quinn? What the Hell?"

Caleb spun on his heels. On the steps of the hotel stood exactly the man Caleb had been looking for, Emmett Blayne.

"Blayne!" Caleb couldn't hide his surprise. "So ya gots the decency to pick me up after all."

Blayne cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, a look that rang all of Caleb's alarm bells.

"What d'you mean, Quinn?"

"What?"

Blayne stepped up to Caleb. "What you just said 'bout me picking you up. Didn't even expect to run into you here."

With a frown as dark as the night before dawn, Caleb let his eyes wander over the other man. "I'd say that yer not funny, but that'd require ya to have a sense of humor."

Blayne just nodded curtly. "What is it?" he asked, then cast a quick look around. "No. Not here. Come upstairs; got a good room here."

The two men ducked into the hotel, and a few minutes later Caleb was seated in a comfy bedroom.

"So," Blayne said, handing him a tumbler of whiskey before sitting down in the chair in front of Caleb, "how come you're not surprised to see me here?"

"Ya asked me to meet ya here. Well, not here." Caleb gestured around the room. "A hotel at the edge o' town."

"I think I'd know about that." Blayne shook his head with a worried look. "I know you don't joke 'bout things like that. So why'd you say it?"

Caleb produced the telegram from his pocket. "'Cause I received this."

Blayne studied the message intently before pulling a grimace as if it had offended him. Which, all things considered, was very much the case.

"Haven't been in New York for 'bout four months now. I'm trailing Van Laren."

Caleb gave an impressed whistle. "'Devil's Blacksmith' Van Laren?"

"The very same."

"An' here I was certain the fuckin' bastard was gone for good." Caleb sneered in distaste and sipped his drink.

"I thought the same 'bout you, Quinn." As Caleb nodded darkly, Blayne continued. "Heard you're back from Hell. Was planning on sayin' 'Hello' once I got done here."

"Awfully kind of ya." Caleb grinned, leaning forward. "So ya got Van Laren cornered?"

Blayne nodded. "Been looking into a murder in New Orleans a few months ago. It had Van Laren written all over it. A month later I came face to face with the sick bastard. He got away, and I tracked him to Missouri and he vanished again."

"So how do you know he's here?"

"Pure stupid luck, Quinn. He apparently left the state helter-skelter a couple of days back, but messed up covering his tracks. Guess whoever paid for his ' _services_ ' is paying quite generously."

"He's as greedy as he is depraved. Ya'd think after almost losing his hand to ya an' getting a red-hot poker across his face from me he'd know better."

Another nod.

"Need a hand with him?" Caleb asked. 

"I'd be a fool to say no." Blayne waved a hand at the long bundle that lay on the low dresser by the door. "I mean, you already brought your gun, and I want to see Van Laren hang once and for all. He's evaded both of us long enough."

"You'd owe me twice," Caleb said with a grin.

"I know, I know. And how does 50/50 sound to you?"

"Not too bad. I remember his bounty bein' something in the upper 4-digits."

"Still is."

"Deal."

"Glad to hear that." Blayne grinned. "But first things first, Quinn: What's with that message?"

Meticulously, Caleb recounted why he had sent the initial telegraph, and Blayne nodded along.

"Someone intercepted your message then."

"Figures." Caleb drummed his fingers against the glass. He was getting angry; he knew that, and it bugged him that he had no target to direct the anger at. "I mean, I heard there was some funny business with the wire, but Aaron said they fixed it. Why would someone do that?"

Blayne shrugged, downing his drink.

"They are looking into reopening the DeWitte mine, don't they?"

With an annoyed groan Caleb sank back into his chair. "I hadn't heard of that yet. Are they really?"

"Rumor has it, at least. And you know how people get when it comes to gold."

"I'm stickin' with what them Indians say. The area 'round Sorrow Creek's to be stayed away from. Ya know what DeWitte's miners said 'bout the mine on top of that."

Blayne nodded wistfully. "But if they are reopening the mine, there's a lot of people who'd want the news before anyone else."

"True."

"Now, as for that Wallace," Blayne rubbed his chin. "I know about him. Was commissioned to find him a couple of years back."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Listen, Quinn. If I didn't know better, I'd say this Mr. Wallace doesn't exist at all."

Caleb sneered. "Ya gotta be a bit clearer 'bout that, Blayne."

"When I was commissioned to find him," Blayne began, leaning back in his chair in thought, "All I was given was a name, a vague description and a potential whereabouts."

"So the same rotten leads I got."

Blayne nodded. "Yes. They had me end up in Boston, and the woman I rented a room from had information about Mr. Wallace."

"Ya lucky bastard."

A wry grin spread on Blayne's twisted lips. "I wish. While I do trust her to have been truthful, the man she described... It was as if he didn't exist. I found several men that should have been Christopher Wallace, based on all the information I had, but... they just weren't. It was absurd."

"And then?"

"I gave up. No matter what I did, this Wallace was never where he should have been."

Caleb nodded grimly. With a lot of other people, a lot of other bounty hunters, he'd have written this off as plain incompetence. But Emmett Blayne was a legend. A 'greatly valued rival' was a good way to put it. Both men shared a deep-seated respect for each other, and both knew the other would never give up on a mark until they ran out of leads.

"Gave my contact all I knew about Mr. Wallace and went on my way," Blayne concluded. "So if you don't have more, I doubt anyone who tried finding him after me found nothing new."

Well, wasn't that just great news? Caleb frowned and ran a hand through his hair.

"You know what would be... funny?" Blayne dragged him from his thoughts. "No, not funny. Intriguing."

"Hmm?" Caleb raised a questioning brow, then things clicked into place. "Are ya thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That you're Van Laren's mark?"

"Yes..." the growl Caleb gave would have had bears and mountain lions back off. "In fact, someone warned me that me life's in severe danger." He took a deep breath and rubbed over his beard. "Do you know a man by the name Ethan Murdock? Or a Marshal Dan Jacobs?"

"Not that I'd remember." Blayne stretched in his chair, pulling out his watch. "I hope we're wrong 'bout this, Quinn. In any case, we should prepare, and prepare well."

"We still got some hours before this false Blayne wanted to meet me," Caleb pondered. "Say, what were ya up to, anyway?"

"Come again?"

"Ya were just leavin' when I ran into ya. And something tells me ya weren't out to get Van Laren."

Blayne barked a laugh. "I wasn't. Wish I were. But no. I've been looking to wile away some time until I get messages from other hotels in."

"Ah?"

"You know how well it pays to have resources that can ask around without having a mark catch on. Couldn't foresee you showing up and narrowing the search down."

" _If_ I actually am his target."

"Another reason to wait and be certain."

~+~

Caleb nodded wistfully and knowingly. "So, now ya wiled away time with me."

Upon that, Blayne gave Caleb a peculiar look and a smirk that made Caleb pause, the glass on his lips.

"What's with that smirk?" Caleb asked, lowering his drink.

"I was on my way to the whorehouse down the road," Blayne answered, nonchalantly. "But now that you said that, I fondly remember what happened when we worked together trailing Prescott."

Caleb grinned from ear to ear, reclining in the chair. "Naughty," he teased, swirling his glass. "Ah, ya almost alarmed Prescott and his men to our presence with yer screaming."

"No, no, Quinn. That was all your screaming."

Caleb wrinkled his nose. "Excuse you? I don't _scream_."

"I remember that differently." Blayne got up, put his glass down on the fireplace and placed his hands onto Caleb's legs, looming over him. "I bet I can make you scream again."

With a quirked brow Caleb looked up, pausing just long enough to give the appearance of being insulted. Then he grinned. "I'd make you scream first. How much?"

Blayne cocked his head in consideration. "A quarter more of the bounty on Van Laren for the winner?"

"75/25? Heh. Hope ya don't need the money urgently then."

"You're pretty certain you'll win." Blayne pulled back and gave him a scrutinizing glance. "Then again... are you still as good with your tongue as I remember?"

Caleb grinned. "To be honest, haven't tried yet since they fucked me jaw up."

"Heh, it'd be bloody unfair to hurt you in ways neither of us intended. So I guess I'm safe."

Now Caleb laughed, wrapping his arms around the other man and giving Blayne's arse a good squeeze. "Oh, we'll see 'bout that..."

Blayne grinned, eyes half-lidded, and he trailed his lips over the scared cheek. "We'll see 'bout that indeed."

Caleb hummed in delight, Blayne's hands roaming his body, undoing the shirt's buttons.

"Got quite a few new scars since I last saw you," Blayne commented and Caleb snorted a laugh.

"Did ya think the jaw's the only new one?" he asked, playing with the other man's belt. And forcing himself not to think about the weird scars. Not now.

"I won't ask." Blayne smirked, but there was a flashing in his eyes that told Caleb he'd have to answer the questions later.

"Good." With a devilish grin Caleb shuffled down in his seat just enough to be at eye-height with Blayne's crotch. "Let's see if yer as safe as ya think."

Blayne had just enough time to steady himself with a knee on the chair for better balance as Caleb undid his trousers, surprisingly nimble fingers grabbing firm hold of the erection he was sporting.

Blayne moaned huskily as scarred lips closed around his cock's tip, a teasing tongue playing over it.

"You haven't lost any of your skill, Quinn," Blayne murmured appreciatively, and Caleb gave a rumbling chuckle that almost drew a yelp from him. Just almost. In retaliation Blayne rolled his hips slowly, watching the other man bop his head in rhythm and moving his hands back to Blayne's arse as if urging him on to drive his cock into him even further.

It wasn't much of a surprise to Blayne that he had to bite his hands to not make a sound while Caleb worked him, and, panting slightly and shivering more, he pulled back rather suddenly, his cock springing from Caleb's mouth with a soft plop.

"What, scared?" Caleb teased, licking his lips and looking up at the other man with lidded, mischievous eyes.

"On the contrary." Blayne teased back in a tone that made Caleb blink a little confused. That was the opportunity Blayne had been waiting for.

He twisted his fingers into Caleb's hair, pulling his head back. The cry Caleb gave dissolved into a husky moan as Blayne began suckling along the exposed throat, his tongue trailing the broad scar.

"Shh," Blayne hushed teasingly. "You're losing the bet."

"Shut up, I ain't," Caleb protested weakly, and Blayne chuckled.

"We'll see 'bout that, Quinn," he purred, and the next moment Caleb found himself face-down splayed over the table, his trousers down and Blayne pounding his arse relentlessly.

"...Fuck..." Caleb stammered, panting, and causing Blayne to pause, which drew another moan from his throat. "I forgot how bloody thick yer cock is."

Blayne chuckled. "You just had the whole thing down your throat."

"Ah, that's different," Caleb breathed, bucking his hips.

"True... And it's been a while, hasn't it?" Then Blayne's voice softened slightly. "You're alright?"

Caleb just nodded, his whole frame shivering.

"Well, then," Blayne gave a small, rather sinister laugh and rolled his hips harshly.

Caleb groaned and gasped, fingers curling around the table's edge, legs twitching under each thrust. He snapped his jaw back into place and bit his lips, trying to keep himself from making any sound. Blayne's movements were hard, rough and erratic, but they hit their mark each time. Caleb hated to admit it to himself, but it took all of his willpower not to scream. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and he felt a little dizzier with each thrust, his own cock scraping against the rough linen of the tablecloth.

He let out a heavy groan, pushing back against the other man as best as his position and shaking legs allowed, smirking a little as Blayne grunted a delighted response. The thrusts steadied into a rolling, hard rhythm; Blayne tracing his hands along Caleb's side, trailing nails over old scars.

And _then_ he grabbed Caleb's hair again, pulling his head back like he was pulling a horse's reins, just in time with a particular hard thrust. That was too much. Caleb let out a long, wanton cry, doing all he could not to have his knees buckle and give in. Blayne needed a moment longer, his thrust now slower and more teasing, as if he was running a victory round. Granted, that was what he was doing.

When he stepped away, Caleb slumped onto the table, panting, fingers curling slowly into the tablecloth.

Blayne harrumphed, amused and leaned over Caleb. "There. Made you scream."

Caleb furrowed his brow and jutted his lower lip forward. "That wasn't a _scream_ ," he protested. "That was... an elongated, marginally louder yelp."

Blayne actually laughed at that, stood back up and slapped Caleb's arse. "Fine, fine, Quinn. 60/40 for me, deal?"

Caleb staggered to an upright position, pulling his trousers back into place. "Oh, alright."

With a smile Blayne turned away. "Going to clean myself up a little..." he looked back and tilted his head in worry. "You look paler than usual. Are you alright?"

The response was a shrug.

"Maybe could have done with a bit more than spit and sweat," Caleb said, rubbing his backside absentmindedly. "But, yeah, I'll be fine. Not the roughest fling I ever had."

Blayne looked him up and down. "You're certain?"

"Aye." Then Caleb grinned, very carefully sitting back down. "But ya know. If ya wanna treat me like a horse, at least ride me proper."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Additional Warnings: Mutilation, alluded racism, alluded infanticide)

"I presumably tell you to meet me after nightfall at a secluded boarding house, and you see nothing wrong with it?" Blayne teased. "You're getting sloppy, Quinn."

Caleb harrumphed and buried his hands in his pockets in defiance. Then again, he had to admit, he should have been more cautious. Blayne might be particular in his approaches to things, but so was Caleb. And, looking back, Caleb's reasoning that Blayne would want to save money by meeting at this place was... just not like him.

The house was a stocky brick building like so many others in the city. The houses flanking it were much taller, casting it in perpetual shadows only broken by the thunderstorm raging above.

Caleb and Blayne stood a little away from the address Caleb had been given, just down the other side of the street and under an awning, the curtain of rain that was coming down providing additional cover.

"I can see why Van Laren's stayin' here," Caleb commented, eying the building a little longer. "It's just his kind of," he wiggled his fingers, " _ambience_."

With a small smirk and snort, Blayne pushed himself off the wall. "We should go."

"How many traps d'ya expect?"

"If he's not aware I'm with you, half a dozen. If he figured the boy asking 'round for him worked for me, and if he's paranoid enough..."

"Paranoid, certainly," Caleb snarled. "Are we lucky he prob'ly only had a day or less to rig that building?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Ya said he left Missouri not too long ago. And given when I sent that telegraph..."

"Makes sense." Blayne rubbed his chin. "Do you think my sources asking 'round blew our chances out of the water?"

Caleb grimaced. "Maybe." Now he rubbed his chin, too. "It's a gamble, but... ya know Van Laren. We ran into each other by chance; he might not think we're comin' here t'gether."

"Yeah. He'll expect you, and plans on letting the news of your demise reach me to get me here." With a curt shake of his head Blayne set out towards the building. Caleb followed.

"Who do you think he hates more?" Blayne asked, making small talk.

"You. Yer Black. That he's missing a kidney an' half his lung, and got that massive burn scar 'cross his face due to me, won't change that."

Blayne snorted a laugh, squinting up at the building. So did Caleb.

"No sign o' him at least," Caleb murmured, scanning the windows.

"That good or bad?"

"Guess we'll see..."

Without another word they entered the building. It was dark and dusty, the gaslight low and flickering. Various suitcases and boxes were blocking the front desk, while an older man stood behind it, hunched over something, his back to Caleb and Blayne.

Caleb couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight, and cleared his throat.

Twice, before the man vaguely raised his head, answering with a murmur.

"Ev'ning, sir. Could ya tell me which room Emmett Blayne's in? He's expecting me."

"You're Caleb Quinn?" The man briefly turned his head before looking back down at whatever he was reading. "He told me you'd be coming. Upstairs, end of the corridor. And he told me to tell you to hurry." The man waved a hand so dismissively it looked as if he tried to fling it off his arm.

Caleb quirked a brow at the exchange, but shrugged at Blayne and nodded towards the stairs.

Upstairs was no better than downstairs. It was just as dark; maybe even darker. The lobby had some flickering lights at least; upstairs had one single lamp above the landing, and one at the entrance of the sole corridor branching off of it.

"Quinn? What do you think Van Laren did? Trapped the doors?"

Caleb looked around. "Likely. Don't think he'd got time to prepare more." He rubbed his chin in thought. "But ya know what? Ya wait here, an' I'll get a bloody lamp. I'm not going t' waltz in there," he pointed down the dark hallway, "and risk having whatever happen."

Blayne nodded and leaned against the railing, watching Caleb descend the stairs.

Back downstairs, Caleb marched up to the front desk (well, the suitcases), and cleared his throat again. The man didn't react. Caleb knocked on one of the boxes.

"Hey!" he called. "Do ya got a lamp? Yer not havin' any working ones upstairs."

Once more, no answer, no reaction at all. Now, Caleb knew from people like Aaron that being absorbed in a book can do that to people, but by all means, he didn't have the time or nerve for it now.

With an annoyed groan Caleb stepped around the suitcases and boxes and behind the counter, reaching out to grab the man by the shoulder.

And froze.

The man was dead, propped up by a broken wooden rod in his chest, and a thick length of twine had been strung through the man's skull from temple to temple and through his wrists.

Suddenly the jerky moves from before seemed a lot less dismissive.

Caleb inhaled sharply, muttering a curse and a prayer before turning on his heel and rushing back upstairs. "Blayne!"

He arrived a bit out of breath, finding Blayne standing in the archway.

"Bad news?" Blayne noted. It didn't really sound like a question.

"The guy at the desk's dead," Caleb said, and pressed his lips together, distraught. The look on Blayne's face spelled trouble. "Guess ya got some too?"

Blayne nodded very slowly, pointing down.

A floorboard had visibly sunken down under Blayne's foot.

"Don't move," Caleb murmured, making Blayne roll his eyes.

"Didn't plan to do so, Quinn."

Caleb smiled wryly and pulled a knife from his belt. "Was there a click or did it just sink in?"

"Click."

A small nod and Caleb turned around, hacking at the wooden bannister till he got some suitable bits out. "Whatever any o' us does now, don't shift yer weight." With that, he knelt down, carefully shoving the splinters into the mechanism to act as wedges to hold it down.

"What do you think?" Blayne began casually as Caleb worked. "Explosives? Or a Gatling?"

"Not a Gatling. Explosives. Maybe a Tellers', if he had the time t' get one; that's more like Van Laren. 'S long as he thinks it's only me, that is."

"Take your legs out?"

Caleb nodded, slowly scooting away from Blayne. "That should do, but be careful."

"Didn't intend anything else." With the speed of a continental drift Blayne shifted his weight, lifting his foot off the doorstep. Caleb let out a low sigh, getting back to his feet and putting his knife away.

"Go back downstairs," he hushed, inclining his head towards the stairs.

"Going to set it off?"

Caleb just nodded. "Not gonna have anyone what comes in here after us trigger the bloody thing."

Blayne nodded quickly and moved back down the stairs while Caleb pulled a piece of string from his pocket, looping it around the wooden wedges with the greatest care. With how the poor sod behind the front desk looked, Caleb was certain that his estimation that Van Laren had less than a day to rig the building was correct. So at least there wouldn't be too many traps. Didn't mean Van Laren wouldn't have done what he could to make them lead to a slow, agonizing death.

Caleb looked around, scanning the walls left and right of the archway. While it was unlikely that Van Laren had the time to do anything to them... better safe than sorry. The moment he was certain the coast was clear, he slowly and steadily crouched away. As certain as he was that Van Laren would all too gladly try to take his legs out, there was no guarantee that the bastard hadn't also rigged up something to mess with his arms. With a deep (and admittedly nervous) breath, Caleb tugged on the string, pulling the wedges from their position. Immediately, four massive bangs resounded through the building, the thick frame of the archway bursting into pieces and the guns that had been hidden on either side clattered to the ground.

Slowly, Caleb counted to ten before a fifth shot discharged from the wall just opposite the dark corridor. That would have hit him straight in the middle off his back, maybe not killing him, but definitely paralyzing him for good. But as he _wasn't_ standing in the archway, the bullet shot down the hall and shattered a window on the other end.

"Didn't expect the fifth shot," Blayne commented as he joined Caleb again, helping him off the ground.

"I did. Dunno if being able t' think like Van Laren's a curse or a fuckin' blessing."

"In this case? A blessing."

But Caleb shook his head. "Eh, don't say that, Blayne. The wanker knows I can think like him, so we're pitting our brains against each other here. Come."

A cold wind now blew in through the dark corridor and whenever lightning flashed, one could make out the outline of four doors.

Blayne grimaced. "Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo?" he deadpanned. 

Caleb gave a tense grin. "Guess so. What I just said 'bout him knowing we think alike..."

"You think all doors are trapped."

"Naw. Not enough time. One or two though..." While he spoke, Caleb held his hands in front of his chest, gesturing at himself. It took Blayne a moment to understand that this meant that Van Laren might be coming up behind them.

"Likely," Blayne murmured, casually drawing his gun and checking it. So did Caleb.

"So, ya gonna check that one, I gonna che-..." Mid-word he spun around, shooting virtually from the hip.

A shotgun clattered to the ground, and the man who had been holding it cried out, clutching his arm.

Caleb smiled. "There ya are, you fuckin' bastard."

Van Laren smiled like he was drunk. "I heard you're back from Hell, Quinn. Shame, really."

"What? Did ya want me to wait for yer sorry arse and keep ya one of them good spots?" His smile and bantering tone fell. "Ya comin' peacefully this time? Ya don't got that many more bodyparts to be mangled."

Van Laren simply cocked his head, still smiling at the two men training their revolvers on him. "Yeah, I don't, do I? All thanks to you two sewer rats. But you know what? What I got is plans, and none of them involve a favorable outcome for you." The smile grew into a nasty grin, and for a moment Caleb's eyes twitched in confusion. Then they widened in realization.

"Shit!" He pushed Blayne to the side and dove to the other, just as another shot rang out from down the hallway. Blayne cried out, clutching his side, and Caleb made to scramble back to his legs, stopping dead as he found himself looking down the barrel of Van Laren's shotgun.

"I would honestly hate to blow your head off, Quinn, so if you'd kindly put down your weapons and come along?"

Caleb dared to hazard a glance at Blayne. By the looks of it, it had been a buckshot that hit him. He was alive, but in severe pain and bleeding. Not badly, but still. With a low growl Caleb put his revolver and knife down, shoving them over to Van Laren, who, almost gleefully, put them on a chest of drawers to the side.

"It was quite a pleasant surprise that the two of you came here. I like it when imbeciles like you can muster enough brain to make my work easier." Van Laren smiled as Caleb made to take off the bundle holding the Redeemer. "Oh, no. You're bringing _that_ with you. As I _do_ wonder what it'll take for your improved version to disembowel someone."

Caleb bit back any comment about how he'd gladly show Van Laren. With how Blayne was doing, it wasn't the time to be a bloody smartarse. Van Laren cocked his head and his smile grew, twisting the burn scar, and without any warning he slammed the butt of his shotgun against Blayne's head, knocking him out cold.

"I'll deal with that one later. Now, Quinn, if you would follow me to the kitchen," Van Laren said, and Caleb rose to his feet, his hands up.

The kitchen turned out to be the only lit room in the building. The massive wooden table in the middle had been cleared and the splatters on the tiles gave Caleb a good idea what Van Laren had done with the people working here.

"Now, kindly take off your shirt," Van Laren commanded, and Caleb couldn't keep himself from being baffled for a moment. Then gears clicked into place.

"I owe ya a liver, don't I?" Caleb rolled his eyes briefly.

"And a bit of lung, yes." Van Laren gestured with the shotgun. "And I prefer people paying their dues to me while they're breathing."

Just for a moment Caleb tried to stare him down, a part of him hoping Blayne had recovered and was on his way here. But then a buckshot went just past him, obliterating whatever had been on the counter behind Caleb. Broken pans, wooden spoons and knives clattered onto the tiled floor into a heap of shards and splinters.

At least Van Laren was now one shot short.

"I don't like waiting, Quinn," he said, and with a hopefully indiscernible gulp, Caleb dropped his duster and undid his shirt, not once breaking eye-contact with Van Laren. He expected the bastard to order him to lay down on the sturdy table, but instead Van Laren's eyes grew wide in shock.

" _What_?" Van Laren breathed, aggravated. "You... Why you...? No. No! I will _not_ accept this! I will _not_ allow this!"

Van Laren's shot went wide, missing Caleb completely, and with a raging screech, Van Laren launched himself at Caleb after finding there were no more shots left to fire. Caleb barely evaded, diving over the table.

No, this certainly was unexpected.

In all the years Caleb had chased Van Laren, he'd always only heard how dreadfully calm the man was, no matter what he was doing to his victims. Someone had even described him as the polar opposite of Caleb when it came to their fury. So, this was certainly out of the ordinary. And maybe an advantage.

Caleb dodged again and again, Van Laren getting some painful hits in with both ends of his shotgun, cracking skin and bones. Until Caleb stumbled over to the heap of shattered kitchenware and picked up a long knife just as Van Laren lunged forward once more. Caleb spun around the last second, the knife hitting the other man in the side of the neck. Van Laren made a gurgling sound, spitting blood and staring at Caleb in disbelief. Then, clutching a hand to the wound in an attempt to stem the blood, he turned and stagger-ran out the shattered kitchen door before Caleb was on steady feet again.

Catching his breath Caleb stared at the door, a mixture of anger, relief and panic building up in him. He didn't need to think twice. He scrambled to the counter, grabbing and unwrapping the Redeemer in one swift motion and hobbling over to the door.

Lightning flashed, illuminating Van Laren's retreating form down the alleyway. An odd calm washed over Caleb as he raised his gun, aimed and shot. A cry rang out as the spear pierced through Van Laren's shoulder, its barbs digging into skin and flesh.

A part of Caleb wanted to grin in triumph, but he knew not to sell the calf before the cow hasn't been fucked or something. Van Laren struggled against the chain's pull, to the point where Caleb got worried it might break far too soon.

Instead, much to his shock, Van Laren reached back and pulled the spear free, effectively ripping out most of his shoulder before stumbling into the darkness.

Caleb stared after Van Laren, admittedly a little disgusted, as he cranked the chain back in and shook parts of the bastard off the spear.

He had to give chase. No, he had to check on Blayne. Lightning flashed again, and something fell over upstairs. His decision was made. Van Laren had a knife in his throat and was now missing most of his shoulder, while Blayne had a bullet in his chest. Caleb turned away from the door leading outside, grabbed his things and hurried back upstairs. Blayne greeted him with a pained grin.

Having come to again, he'd managed to pull himself up against one of the chest of drawers in the hallway.

"Is the bastard dead?" Blayne breathed, holding his side.

"Hope so."

"Hope so?"

While Caleb applied as much first aid as he was able, he recounted what happened.

"Van Laren snapped? The Devil's Blacksmith _snapped_?" Blayne exhaled in what was likely a bit of shock.

Caleb shrugged and helped Blayne back up. "Ya should have seen him. You'll be alright?"

"I reckon. That nasty little surprise missed my vital organs. Gonna hurt sleeping on the side for a while, though." Blayne grinned. "Guess neither of us'll be getting that precious bounty."

The smile Caleb gave was strained. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find him in the streets when we leave."

Blayne smiled back, just as strained, and looked up and down the hallway. "Think anyone's still here?"

"You know Van Laren. There's always his 'reward' to himself after his killings." Caleb let out a growl. Just then, a baby's cry echoed through the building, causing both men to hurry down the hallway with the shattered window. Hurry with caution, that was. After all, one never knew.

At the end of it stood a sturdy bookcase that looked distinctly out of place. In the dark of the night, however, it was barely noticeable.

"Bastard blocked off a room," Blayne noted dryly. "Guess he hadn't had the time to prepare any surprises on the door."

"Eh, don't say that, Blayne." Caleb furrowed his brow. The child was definitely behind the bookcase. "Hello?" he called out. Every fiber of his being hoped that the mother was with the child and alive and well. He had seen what Van Laren was capable of, especially when it came to 'rewarding himself'.

"Let's get this thing out of the way." Blayne barked, with an anger and urgency Caleb had rarely ever seen in him. He nodded, and within a few attempts the bookcase crashed to the floor, leaving only the locked door as an obstacle. It fell to a well-placed kick from Blayne.

Inside cowered five people, injured but alive, and scared out of their wits, staring at Blayne and Caleb. In the corner a young Black couple sat huddled with their baby, and Caleb didn't like the way the mother was holding the child the moment he and Blayne had entered the room. He nodded curtly at Blayne, but that one had already stepped over, crouching down before the couple.

"You'll be alright, Ma'am," he said softly, the mother now rocking the still-crying baby gently.

"Who are you?" the father asked, and Blayne introduced himself and Caleb.

"I heard of you," the young woman said, looking at her partner. "Does this mean that the bastard's dead?"

Blayne looked back at Caleb, who turned his attention away from the other two, and nodded softly. "He won't bother ya, alright. Yer baby all fine?"

The woman nodded slowly, and Blayne helped her back to her feet.

  
Not too long after, Caleb and Blayne sat in the lobby of the sinister boarding house, watching the local lawmen go about everything and bodies being carried out.

"They're on their way to Canada," Blayne began casually. Caleb looked at him, rather worried.

"Ya panicked back there," he noted.

Blayne scrunched up his nose. "There's a lot of Black folks in boarding houses like this. And I've seen what some can do to their babies when..."

Caleb nodded understandingly. "The child's fine. And them's off to, hopefully, a better life."

Blayne nodded back bitterly.

"Hey," Caleb smiled askew. "I mean, look at ya. Who'd expected ya to be where ya are now?"

"I wish that couple all the best." Blayne said after a thoughtful moment, smiled and gave Caleb's shoulder a squeeze. "You'll be fine?"

"Bounced back from worse. Got a good Doc in Glenvale."

Now Blayne grinned. "One of these days I gotta see this Doc Yeung for myself. From what he managed on you, the man can't be a normal mortal."

Caleb grinned, chuckling softly. "One day I'll find that out. I'll have ya know."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"You think Van Laren's still out there?" Blayne finally asked.

"I hope not. With those wounds... I pray he's rotting in a hole somewhere."

"Me too." Blayne got up and stretched. "You're heading back to Glenvale then?"

"Yes." Caleb got up as well. "Gotta look into who interrupted that telegram an' is fuckin' deprived enough to work with Van Laren to get rid of me."

The two men looked at each other, knowing they were both thinking of the same person.

Bayshore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Additional Warnings: Mention of Suicide, Mutilation)

Caleb was woken by a soft, but insistent, knocking.

He had arrived back in Glenvale late at night and had fallen asleep the moment he was in close proximity to his bed. The night had again been filled with absurd and, honestly, frightening dreams of the spider-creature. At least Van Laren didn't pop up in it.

Caleb let out a small grunt and tried to roll over, gritting his teeth at the pain shooting through his body. He was sore all over, nauseous and generally dizzy.

Another knock.

"Come in." Caleb groaned and the door creaked open slowly, Miss Josie poking her head in.

"G'morning, sunshine," she singsonged, and the smile she was giving Caleb revealed there was just friendly teasing in it, and no mockery. "How ye doin'?"

Caleb pulled himself into a more-or-less sitting position, rubbing his bad leg. He hadn't taken the brace off, and the consequences of that started to make themselves felt. "Badly," he thus answered.

"With the way ye looked, I'm amazed ye made it up them stairs an' all the way to yer bed."

"To be honest, so'm I." With another groan Caleb rubbed his head.

"An' ye been bleedin' all over them sheets."

Caleb looked at the bed and frowned. One or two of the bandages had come off. Thankfully not on any of the bigger wounds, but bad enough to soak spots on his shirt and the sheets below. "Ah, bugger."

Miss Josie smiled gently. "I'll get the stuff to patch ye back up. Ye undress." She pulled her head back, and Caleb undid his clothes, stripping down to bare nothing and laying back. 

And just as he did so, Miss Josie sauntered into the room... with Miss Catherine following on her heels.

"Jesus bloody Christ!" Caleb cried out in surprise, pulling the cover over his loins.

"Don't flatter yerself, Quinn, ain't nuffin' any o' us ain't seen yet."

"Yer not funny, Josie," Caleb grumbled, and then sat up straight, stiff and wide-eyed. "What do ya mean by that?" he screeched.

"Oh, I helped get you here, Mr. Quinn," Miss Catherine said. "We had to get you out of the rags your clothes were to see to your wounds."

Caleb gave both women a brief glare, before shuffling around to turn his back at them.

"Told ye, lass, he can be positively adorable when he's flustered," Miss Josie lilted, putting the bundle she was carrying on the bed.

Miss Catherine giggled softly, and Caleb gave an annoyed murmur.

"I'm not flustered," he protested, looking very unhappy. He didn't mind Miss Josie being like that, and usually he had no problem strutting what he had, but with Miss Catherine... this situation now didn't feel right. And, try as he may, Caleb didn't know why.

"Certainly, Quinn," Josie said, tugging on the cover. "Come now, 'fore them wounds open up more."

Caleb rolled his eyes, moved the cover away and turned around. "'M not flustered," he repeated and sulked, not looking at either woman as they proceeded to clean the wounds and replace the bandages.

"That's a lot of stories," Miss Catherine suddenly said, and Caleb's head shot up.

"What?" he managed, staring at her bewildered.

"You have so many scars, each of them must have its own story." Miss Catherine explained casually, tenderly dressing a nasty cut on Caleb's arm.

"Oh... that... Yes." Caleb scratched his neck abashed.

"This a right shame yer not more of a story-teller, Quinn," Miss Josie teased, patting him on a fresh bandage before getting up. "There, all nice and clean."

Caleb stretched a little, rubbing his bad leg. "I see the two o' ya became friends."

"All thanks to ye, Quinn. Miss Catherine here's got a lotta questions 'bout ye; better I answer what I can than any of yer boys, aye?"

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Guess so." Then he looked scrutinizingly at Miss Catherine. "Is there a reason yer askin' 'round 'bout me? Instead of askin' me directly?"

"Quinn, how'd ye react if that had happened?" Miss Josie intoned, poking at his shoulder.

"Well, we'll never know now," Caleb retorted.

"You could imagine. I admit I had an avalanche of questions," Miss Catherine said, folding her hands in her lap. "Do you think you would have been fine with it? You're a fascinating man, Mr. Quinn."

Once more Caleb frowned. "Listen, Miss. I don't think after yer first comment to me was that I gots pretty eyes, ya coming up to me with questions would have surprised me."

"But would you have answered them?"

Caleb instinctively turned to Miss Josie to snap back when he realized that comment had come from Miss Catherine. He blinked at her in disbelief for a moment, before grumbling to himself.

Miss Josie chuckled and turned towards the door. "Ye know, Quinn, I didn't answer all them questions. Some I can't answer, so, how 'bout you entertain Miss Catherine while I get breakfast ready?"

Before Caleb could protest, Miss Josie was out the door, leaving him alone with Miss Catherine.

"For Christ's sake," Caleb mumbled and slumped back on the bed, pulling the cover back over his manhood once it fully sank in that Miss Catherine was still sitting next to him and he was still very naked.

"That was admittedly rude," Miss Catherine said.

"Eh, that's typical of Josie. She likes t' wind me up like this."

"Are you angry?"

"Naw. It's rather refreshing, actually. An', truth be told, I could need some company that ain't me boys." Suddenly Caleb felt as if his brain just kicked him in the crotch. "To... to talk to, I mean," he hastily added, and once more didn't know why he was behaving like this.

Miss Catherine chuckled. "So you won't mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Depends on the questions, really."

"It's just... some curiosity about you. I know the folktales about the infamous Deathslinger, and I would like to know which of them are true."

"Which ones did ya hear?"

"A handful, I believe. Tales like that have all become very muddled by the time they reach Boston."

"That where ya from? Heh. I think a lot of them are bullshit. Like that thing 'bout the branding iron? For Pete's sake, we used that only once on some bloody bastards that tried to blow up the camp after we caught 'em. Don't use it on new members or whatever story ya heard."

Miss Catherine nodded. "I was most surprised how calm you are, if I'm honest. The stories paint you as this wild-eyed brutal lunatic who will maim and kill at the slightest agitation."

"I'm hot-headed, they got that right. An', yeah, I do get very brutal when I'm furious. But it's against people who mock an' belittle me. Like, when you have some fuckin' wankers come and act as if I'm somehow inferior to them. Or..." Caleb growled for a moment, "when they betray me trust an' exploit me." Then he sighed. "That happened bloody often t' me, though."

"So I heard. And I think if someone is only nice to you to get nothing but their own advantage out of it, you have the right to be furious."

Caleb smiled. "Josie keeps tellin' me I ought to work on that, though. The whole overwhelming bloodlust thing. An', y'know, she's right." The smile fell. "Me temper got me in so much trouble, and left me empty and broken." He let out a long sigh. "Ya heard 'bout the massacre at Hellshire, I take it?"

A nod. "Miss Josie told me."

"Dunno if she or anyone filled ya in on the details, but what I can tell ya... When me boys dragged Bayshore and the warden off... I felt like someone hollowed me out. I mean, the stories 'bout me lust for revenge driving me... they are... were... I dunno... There's a lot of truth in 'em. Let's go with that. I mean, all of a sudden me whole world came tumbling down. I been living a lie an' the ones responsible were dead... or soon would be. An' suddenly... there was nothing left to keep me going..."

Caleb sighed again, and Miss Catherine shuffled a little closer.

"Is that why you vanished?" she asked.

"No." Caleb furrowed his brows. "I didn't run away. I... honestly don't know what happened or where I went. I just... I do have nightmares that might have somethin' to do with it, and..." he shuddered, "if that's the case, I don't think I really want t' know what happened."

Miss Catherine nodded understandingly. "Well, now that you are back, have you found something to keep you going?"

"I think so. I got hired to find a missing person. Not a bounty, just some guy who's a bit of a ghost."

"Huh?"

"No one's been able to find that guy yet, an' a friend of mine, Blayne, says he's been trying to find him a few years back without any success."

"Emmett Blayne? The bounty hunter you just worked with?"

"The very same. He's good at his job. I'm better, mind ya, but if he's got trouble finding someone who's got no reason to hide from 'im, it's gonna be a tough job. I know that much." Caleb flexed his hand a little. "An' I want to look into which bastard payed fuckin' Van Laren to do me in."

"First of all you need to heal up, I reckon."

"Eh, true." Caleb sighed. He had to admit; that little misadventure with Van Laren had left him in a bad state, and the weather he had to endure hadn't helped either. He was already feeling a cold creeping into his throat and lungs. He'd probably be out cold in a day or two, with Josie going into her usual obnoxious hen behavior whenever he fell ill. As long as it wasn't too serious an illness.

At least he'd still have some days before that would happen. After a moment sunken in thought, he turned back to Miss Catherine. "So, what brings an educated woman like yerself to Glenvale?"

Miss Catherine kicked her legs a little. "I'm trying to find something about my mother. She's been a good woman. Showed me everything important in the world. But I always knew something was wrong. We... moved a lot. Not like drifters. But the older I got, the more I worried. She's always been quite secretive about her past, but in her later days she often brought the town up."

"What d'ye think?"

Miss Catherine shrugged. "My father was never worried about it, so I really don't know. I think my mother was running away from something."

"So, Glenvale's the only clue ya got to find out what yer mum's been... running away from?"

Another nod. "Yes. I know I'm grasping for straws, but... something tells me I'm doing the right thing."

"Ya think it's wise?"

A smile. "No. But it doesn't let me sleep, Mr. Quinn."

Now Caleb nodded. "Ya gots one interesting life goin' on there, Miss."

"Oh, for all I know, your life is more interesting, Mr. Quinn."

Caleb snorted bitterly. "Naw. Ya really want t' know? The whole thing? I'm warning ya. Josie's right when she says I'm no story-teller."

"If you want to tell me, I'll listen."

Caleb looked at her questioningly, then shook his head and drew a deep breath. "Me parents came here 'cause they ran outta luck back in Ireland. Da always said in the end it was homesickness that did mum in. Her heart's always been 'cross the sea. They were pretty much alone, travelled all the way to Dakota Territory to try an' settle down. Then mum plopped me out, an'... well, yer Irish yerself. Ya know how it was with finding work and all that. We were drifters, 't least till we arrived 'round these parts. 'Twas a little before the whole thing with Sorrow Creek happened."

The way Miss Catherine cocked her head made Caleb stop. "Ya don't know 'bout Sorrow Creek?"

Miss Catherine shook her head.

"Rather hear that story? It's the more int'resting one." Caleb smiled askew.

"No. Please. Continue," Miss Catherine said gently, making Caleb blink softly. He certainly wasn't used to that line being said in honesty.

"Well..." Caleb cleared his throat. "Mum found some work here and there, and Da managed to get some decent odd jobs. Tried to put me into school, but it never caught on. Some boys had it out for me, to the point were me Mum and Da just decided that it was better for me to stay away." For a moment Caleb wondered if he should tell Miss Catherine about the devices he came up with to take revenge for the bullying. He wisely decided against it. At least until he saw Miss Catherine's sorrowful expression.

"Was it bad?" she asked, and Caleb felt as if someone had just thrown him into cold water.

"Miss Catherine..." He sighed. "Y'know I'm no peaceful man and easily angered... It were no diff'rent when I was a boy." He wrung his hands absentmindedly. "I hatched plans for revenge. Gruesome revenge. And around that time, I found me father's old tools. He told me he'd been an engineer, and showed me how to build things. I felt as if I had stepped into a whole new world. One that made more bloody sense to me than anything I had seen so far. Da gifted me his old wrench, taught me well... without any ill intentions. But I had ill intentions. The designs I drew... Y'know... when Da found them... That was the only time he ever beat me. Just a slap across the face, but..." Caleb rubbed his good cheek, "I... I'll never forget the look in his eyes. 'Twas worse than anything else he could've done."

Caleb fell silent for a moment, only to look up, alarmed, when Miss Catherine took his hand and gave it a careful squeeze. He sighed once more, and continued. "Me mum died a little after that. Pneumonia. Da wasn't the same after that. Can't blame 'im. Went and put all his energy into raising me well. Taught me amazing things. I got better with me inventions, and..." Caleb began worrying the hems of the blanket. "I never felt as proud... genuinely proud I mean... like when I got that bloody job at United West Rail. All 'cause Da was so proud and happy. And then..."

"I have heard the basics of it from Josie." Miss Catherine said. "What happened, I mean."

Caleb nodded and bitterly pressed his lips together. "Never learned to read or write. Had me own way of making notes. But ya can't file a patent with that. I... showed Bayshore some ideas I had; explained everything like a complete idiot when he asked... And..." here Caleb took a deep breath, clenching his fists. "He promised me he'd see 'bout filing the patents for me..."

"Which he didn't."

"Yes." A small growl followed, but Miss Catherine took Caleb's hand again, and immediately he relaxed. "Filed them as his own. Made copies of me drawings 'cause he didn't know what me scribbles meant."

"What an arse."

Caleb looked at her. And grinned. He somehow hadn't expected to hear Miss Catherine cuss.

"Is there no way of proving the designs are yours?" Miss Catherine asked.

"No. Bayshore prob'ly destroyed me original drawings."

After a moment Miss Catherine nodded.

"I'm sorry to hear."

Caleb looked at her. "...Thank you."

"That's how you were sent to prison, right?"

"Yes." Caleb frowned. "Went to his office to ask about them patents. Had seen the machines pop up elsewhere. An' just outside his office in Omaha I found out what he had done. I got furious. Stormed the room while he been meeting with investors or something. Didn't care. Beat him into a bloody pulp. The others tried to pull me back, but I broke free and grabbed a copy of one o' me inventions from the table. One that was meant to shoot railroad spikes into the ground. I pressed it 'gainst Bayshore's stomach, and ... _BANG_. Nailed him to his desk. Then someone knocked me out."

He rubbed his forehead. "I was certain I'd hang. Da came by, begging the judge to spare me, tried to vow that what I was sayin' 'bout the patents an' all was true... But, yeah, there was no proof. Only thing that spared me from the gallows was that Bayshore fuckin' well survived." A sigh. "First two years I held onto the hope for a fuckin' miracle. What happened instead was that me Da died. They didn't tell me he asked for me till it was too late to go. Didn't even let me go to his funeral." Hastily Caleb turned his head away, rubbing his eyes. And stiffened when Miss Catherine placed a hand on his back, rubbing it soothingly.

"My mother always said, 'If you need to cry, cry'," she said. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Maybe Miss Josie, but I wager she's seen you cry before."

Caleb nodded curtly, and sobbed, burying his face in his hands. It wasn't bawling, even if he wanted to scream, but choked howls and hiccups, till he lowered his wet hands, his eyes red. He sniffled a little, and wiped his arm across his eyes with a long sigh.

"Yer right," he whispered. "I... I needed that." With a deep inhale, he wrung his hands. "After that... Y'know... tried to take me life a couple of times after that..."

"Is that where that scar on your neck comes from? If I may ask."

Caleb touched the scar in question. "No. That's from later. Heh," he smiled bitterly, "we'll get to that part. But no. That one's not from them. Though I did try hangin' meself. They put me in shackles when I'd be alone in me cell. After that... I... got better, I guess. Stopped thinking 'bout just ending it all. Maybe that was for the better. Gotta know, Miss Catherine, I'm a stubborn ol' fool. Been so despairing and desperate that I wanted out of me bonds just t' get things over with. Learned how to pick a lock in under ten seconds then."

Miss Catherine blinked astonished. "That's... unexpected."

"That's what the Thompson Brothers said when they thought they'd gotten the drop on me an' I brought them to the sheriff in their own handcuffs." Caleb chuckled, amused, swinging his legs a little. "After that life was just an endless joyless routine. The want for revenge was pretty much all what kept me goin', but with no way to get at Bayshore... All I felt was... hollow. Till the warden had me come into his office one day. He had looked into me story, had seen some sketches I made in the commons... and got in trouble for. He asked me to make torture devices for unruly inmates. Would get more meals and nicer blankets in return. After a while I agreed. Ya can bet what I did there didn't make me many friends. Some people knew 'cause I had warned them. I mean, I sorta did get along with 'em. Others had heard the story 'bout why I'm in Hellshire, and put one an' one together. Heh. I had just pulled me shite together an' decided not to kill meself, and then people came and nearly did me in a couple of times. 'Twas until Matthews stood up for me. Stopped a guy named Chapel from bashing me head in with a hammer when we were workin' outside. Lectured the guy 'bout what Chapel himself been pulling to get some advantages, and nearly tore his arm off. Don't remember in which order. Then Matthews took me aside an' told me he's only helpin' me 'cause Kilpatrick and Charlie said I'm no bad news."

Miss Catherine looked lost, and was obviously searching her memory.

"James Kilpatrick and Charlie Mulligan," Caleb helped. "Ya might have seen Charlie around. Guy with an embroidered eyepatch?"

"Oh, yes. I've seen him lounge around the General Store, giving Mrs Janson's daughters tarot readings."

"That's Charlie, alright. An' the whole medium and spirits thing was apparently what he told Matthews 'bout me. Kilpatrick died when we raided Hellshire two years ago. He's been one o' the guys I had told what the warden had asked o' me. Told me to jus' do it, and that Lowell, that's the warden, would find someone else to do it if I didn't, anyway. But yeah, life got a bit better after that. Didn't really make any devices for the warden anymore, but he didn't ask for them at all. Had me come to his house quite often an' help out there, though. Taught me to read and write. An' one day he made me an offer."

"That you fill the prison for him."

Caleb nodded darkly. "I should have said no. Made excuses or something, talked meself out of it. Just finish me time an' see what I can do then. But I accepted. Ya prob'ly heard the rest. Lowell released a few dozen Irish inmates to help me out, and we did a fuckin' good job for six years. And then... One day Mason Kelly an' his gang kidnapped some of me boys and held them hostage in Glenvale... Well, ya prob'ly heard the rest."

"It made it into the papers in Boston. And that was also how you found out about Mr. Lowell selling the prison to Henry Bayshore."

Caleb snarled briefly. "Yeah. And then... nothing, as I said. What's left of me posse tried to figure it out the best they could, but by all means, I just bloody well vanished." With a heavy sigh he laid back. "I think it scared the fuckin' Hell out o' them. More than any of them wants to admit."

"Are you worried?"

Caleb thought about that. "Yes. Told ya, they're good men. Pretty much the only friends I had in life. Aside from Josie and Doc Yeung and Blayne... And I think what's left o' the Hellshire gang now are just the bastards what cared the most 'bout me."

"So, a bit of family?"

"A bit, yes. We were a weird bunch. Those folktales ya talked about, I don't think any of'em got that part right."

"Such stories rarely do. It's not... exciting for the general audience, I guess. People love the more brutal and intriguing tales. The exciting ones. And ghost stories."

A broad grin spread on Caleb's face, and he laughed. Miss Catherine blinked, confused.

"Why are you laughing? It's true?"

"Oh, I'm not doubtin' ya, Miss. I just find it weird that ya say that when ya said ya dunno 'bout Sorrow Creek." Caleb's face softened. "I don't mean to insult ya with that. It's just funny to me to hear ya say what stories get popular, an' then realize the tales of Sorrow Creek didn't spread far and wide. I mean it gots everything: Violence, murder, ghosts. The whole nine yards."

Miss Catherine made a sound of amazement, and smiled. "Well, you said you'd tell me the tale at some point. How about now?"

Caleb smiled. "Alright then..." He cleared his throat. "Little less than a days ride from here there's a valley. Pretty little place. Forgot what them local tribes call it, but we got to know it as Sorrow Creek. 'Bout 50 years ago some Dutchman called De Witte found some gold in the cliffs 'round the valley. Opened a mine. Them Indians warned him, but ya know how that usually ends. People settled nearby, calling their little town Serenity's Creek. Can't blame'm. Not with how the place looks. Ya got the small river flowing through a lush valley, an' some fine meadows and good woods... But them Indians must have got a reason to avoid the place..."

"What happened?"

"What didn't happen? Well, first there were sounds in the night keepin' ev'ryone awake and exhausted. They blamed them Indians, but those guys weren't near the valley. Even the townsfolk had to admit and agree to that. People started falling sick. And I don't mean they were down with a cold or pocks or anything. It wasn't an illness known to our doctors. People just, eh, wasted away in their beds without rhyme or reason. And then, one Sunday, the preacher got up and left the mass mid-prayer, went to the river and drowned himself."

Miss Catherine's eyes went wide in shock.

"An' that's just the start of it, Miss Catherine," Caleb said. "Despite me an' me boys shooting this here town to Hell an' back, there's still a lotta folks around what could tell ya a tale or two 'bout Sorrow Creek. Like the Roggeveen family down the road. As I said, dunno how many of' 'em are true and not exaggerations, but with what I heard, they might very well all be the real MacKay."

"Isn't that a little absurd?"

Caleb grinned wickedly. "Ya ain't seen nothin' yet, Miss. Ya think the dead preacher was the end of it? Betcha folks of Sorrow Creek's would have loved for it to be. But nah. With the man of God gone, the Devil waltzed right in." Caleb cracked his neck in thought. "The sounds got weirder. Nothin' any human could make. People that slept had nightmares they couldn't put into words. But people stayed. New preacher came to town, and work in the mine was going well. Too well, some say."

"How d'you mean?"

"They made a good profit. But miners began vanishing. Some say the De Witte mine runs deeper than should be possible. That there are tunnels no one remembers digging. They say people dug down straight to Hell. And then there was the new preacher. What with people thinkin' the Devil himself's down that mine, they asked the preacher to see 'bout the mine. That he did, takin' two dozen men and women with him... And only he came back. Days later, dizzy and dozy. Couldn't recall what happened. Figured the others had ran back t' town. But no one's ever heard of them since. Some say that preacher was no man of God at all, and that he delivered them poor souls straight to Hell."

"Now you're trying to scare me, Mr. Quinn." Miss Catherine bristled a little, and Caleb raised his hands in defense.

"Didn't think that after the shite I did pull and what ya heard I pulled didn't scare ya that this could..." he murmured. "Just tellin' ya what I heard. I mean, me family hadn't even been 'round here when that shite went down." He took a deep breath. "One fall, a good part of the mine collapsed. Rumor's that some folks took it into their own hands and blew it up. In any case, the mine closed down. Lotsa people left and came here to Glenvale. Those that stayed? The land drove them mad, some say. Violence reigned supreme. Everyone saw their next man as the Devil... By the following spring Serenity's Creek had become a ghost town."

Miss Catherine sat silent in thought, looking a little paler.

"I did scare ya, didn't I?" Caleb asked, and Miss Catherine nodded.

"It's a lot to take in," she said. "Have you... ever been there?"

Caleb gave a strained smile. "Aye. An' let me tell ya, there _is_ something wrong with that place. Sure, it looks fine enough, but it's the same way a deadly animal's be looking fine. It's where I nearly lost me leg." As if for emphasis he rubbed the _corpus delicti_ with a crooked smile. "Ya wanna hear that story 's well?"

"Only if you want to tell it."

"You'll hear it sooner or later, anyways." Caleb laid back on the bed, hands linked behind his head. "'Twas not too long after I took up the whole bounty hunting thing. Me gun finally worked the way I wanted it; no more soddin' disembowelments."

"Unless you wanted to."

Caleb cast Miss Catherine a weird glance, then he harrumphed. "Yeah, yeah. Anyways... I got cocky. Set out after a mark alone, hunted the man down into the valley of Sorrow Creek. Got him on the riverbank, tied him up, when someone shot me in the back. I fell down into the water and barely managed to roll over to breathe. Then this guy stood over me, cocking his shotgun and emptying two cartridges of buckshots into me leg. I passed out from the pain."

"Good Lord..."

With a gentle smile Caleb reached out for Miss Catherine's hand and squeezed it reassuringly before he knew what he was doing. "Yeah. Thought I was a goner. If not for me boys... They had come after me, Charlie been havin' one of his 'bad feelings' again, so they rode after me. 'T least that's what they told me. Dunno if that's the truth or if they were angry at me for goin' out alone..."

"From what I heard, they do trust you enough now that they would have told you the truth."

"Eh, not if it's not sittin' well with 'em." Caleb pulled his hand away, folding them on his chest. "I mean, I did lash out at 'em in them early days. Treated them like shite.They were there cause the warden said I needed someone to have me back."

"Well, no matter what else Mr. Lowell did, he was right about that bit."

Disgusted, Caleb wrinkled his nose. "Eh, I guess so." He hummed in thought. "Yeah, alright, he's _been_ right 'bout that. I thought I could do on me own. Didn't like the idea of having a bunch of chaperons on me arse. Guess I had it coming. When I woke back up, me leg was in pieces, and the doctors were tellin' me I'd lose it."

"What happened that you kept it?"

"Doc Yeung happened. Waltzed right into the room and proclaimed he could save me leg. I'd be left with a limb, sure, but I'd have me leg. The fancy white doctors with their diplomas mocked him. But damn, did he show 'em." Caleb grinned. "I mean, it's the kinda thing ya can expect from the guy who nearly smacked me with an anatomy book after witnessing a disembowelment." A little chuckle followed. "But, yeah, that's how I nearly lost me leg in Sorrow Creek. It's the kinda thing to happen in that place, though..."

Miss Catherine nodded, laying her hand on Caleb's. "Did you ever find the guy who did it?"

Caleb shook his head, feeling a bit of heat crawl into his cheeks. "No. I think Mason Kelly sent him. I mean, the mark's been one o' his men, even though he don't care much 'bout them unless he can get somethin' outta it. Just ask Seán."

"Mr. O'Brian? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"He's been with Kelly's gang. Then one day he overhears somethin' Kelly didn't like him overhearing, and Kelly shoots his ear off an' puts a bullet 'tween his ribs, leavin' him for dead."

"That's terrible."

Caleb shrugged. "It's how life is out here. But hey, I got back on me legs, and first thing I did was put Mason Kelly behind bars. The wanker was fuckin' furious. Can't blame him. I'd be too. An' I admit, I'm grateful for how much me boys helped me in life. ...How much they done help me now."

"You have good friends in your men."

"I do. Just wish I'd have realized that faster." Caleb looked forlornly at Miss Catherine, his eyes lingering on her face maybe a little longer than appropriate. "I mean, me leg ain't the only thing me bloody pride left me with."

Miss Catherine hummed in thought. "The scar at your mouth, your jaw or the noose scar?"

"The neck, yes. The rest came later. The cut on me mouth's from a brawl, most unspectacular story I got to tell." Caleb laughed curtly, before he sat back up. "I went out alone again. Seán, Tommy and Charlie protested, but I wouldn't hear any of it. I mean, I weren't tracking a mark yet, just scouting the area. Kelly had escaped prison and was to meet up with his gang. That's the rumors we heard. I rode straight into a bloody trap. Kelly wanted revenge... They held a whole fuckin' staged trial for me, an' tried to string me up when me boys rode in, cutting me off the noose the last second. We got a good number of Kelly's gang, but Kelly himself had weaseled out."

"But you were alive. I think that's more important. If not for you, then at least for some of your men. They value you as a dear friend and capable leader. And a lover, from what I heard."

Caleb narrowed his eyes before rolling them dramatically. "One of these days I'll kill Josie..." he groaned. "How much did she fuckin' tell ya?"

"That you like to get your arse fucked. I guessed the rest."

Caleb howled briefly and fell back on the bed, hands over his face. But Miss Catherine's voice got softer.

"And that you are a tender and attentive lover," she said, "and that you show a kindness and care towards those you hold dear, or at least make love to, that few people might expect from you."

For a moment Caleb didn't know how to respond or react to that. Another such moment followed the first. And another. Then he just sat there, staring at Miss Catherine in disbelief.

"Are you angry at Miss Josie now?" Miss Catherine finally asked. "I did tell her that that's quite personal information, but..."

Caleb waved her off with a huff. "No, it's fine. If Josie told ya, she trusts ya not to tell anyone else."

Miss Catherine nodded. "Since when are you two together? If I may ask."

Caleb turned his head incredibly slow, blinking profoundly at the question. Then he understood. And grinned broadly. "We're not together, Miss Catherine. No. Sure, sometimes we have sex, but Josie's more... Not gonna say big sister, on the account of the sex, but... she's like the angel and devil on me shoulder at the same time. She's always been me best friend since we were kids, an' sometimes I think she knows me better than I do..." Caleb laughed quietly. "Ya know what she did when I got out o' prison?"

"She certainly didn't tell me."

"For Pete's sake, she really wants me to talk to ya. So, I came back t' Glenvale, me few things in a bundle over me shoulder, and been walking down main street to find a room, when Josie calls out from the saloon's balcony. Makes smalltalk. She says I can have a room in the saloon. I make to go in, when Josie stops me with a strict 'No'... and then these women came up behind me and dump a bucket of soapy water over me head. An' what does Josie say?" Caleb cleared his throat, trying to mimic Josie's voice and accent. " _'Yer not goin' t' come in here wi' fifteen years worth o' dirt an' lice, Caleb Quinn'_ , that's what she said, and the girls; her girls, as I soon learned; dragged me off to the bathhouse."

"Peculiar."

"Heh. That's Josie McKee for ya. She cares greatly for the people she holds dear. Be it her girls, some o' me boys... or rotten old me. Still dunno why she took a liking to me." Caleb smiled wistfully. "Ya know, Josie once bit the nose off of one o' the boys what bullied me. That's how we met."

Miss Catherine's eyebrows ratcheted into her hairline, then sank down in thought. "Huh. I did that too, truth be told."

Caleb stared at her again. "Pardon?"

Miss Catherine smiled. "Oh, yes. There was this boy in my school who was terrorizing the girls and everyone he thought weaker. At some point I had enough. Ended with my dress torn and his nose a bit smaller. Mum gave me an earful, and then asked Dad to teach me proper boxing and shooting."

With amazement Caleb listened, and then nodded, not hiding that he was impressed. "That's not the impression I gots of ya this whole time..." He pondered a little. "Eh, guess I should have known, what with Josie telling ya all that stuff 'bout me."

With a heavy sigh he got up and hobbled over to the small chest of drawers, pulling a clean shirt out and getting dressed.

"Y'know," he murmured. "Lotsa people said Josie an' I will get married at some point. We both think that's bullshit."

"From what I understand, though, the two of you would fit together well."

"Told ya that if it weren't for the sex she'd be like a big sister. An' even if not..." Caleb heavily sat back down on the bed, crossing his arms in thought. "We mused 'bout it ourselves a couple o' times. But... Sure, Josie is prob'ly the kind o' woman who could handle a man like me. She has me back, don't take any of me shit an' all that. But..." Caleb began chewing on his lip.

"But?"

"That special little spark's just missing. For both me an' Josie. Also, she poisoned her first husband."

"She didn't _poison_ him."

Caleb gave Miss Catherine a long, cool look, before drawing in a sharp breath and shaking his head. "Josie always says that when I meet someone I wants to marry an' not just have sex with, I'll prob'ly be the bloody most oblivious fool till it bites me in the arse. I don't believe her, to be fuckin' honest. I mean, y'either know or don't, don't ya think?"

"That's always how it is, innit? You might laugh, but Mrs. Watkins always says the same about me."

Caleb chuckled briefly. "Is that yer chaperon? Saw her scuttle 'round ya in town."

"Yes, that's her. She's a bit like an odd aunt to me. Been one of Mum's best friends. Wouldn't let me go out west on my own."

A nod. "What about yer dad?"

"He's back in Boston, still. Running his little business."

Another nod before Caleb fished for his socks. "Well, care for some breakfast, Miss Catherine? Josie shoulda long since been done preparing things. Let's not keep her waiting any longer."

"I'll gladly join you, Mr. Quinn. Truth be told, I'm starving."

"So'm I." Caleb buttoned his trousers, put on boots and brace and stood up, holding his hand out to Miss Catherine. She gladly took it.

"Josie was right, you can be quite the gentleman." She smiled.

"Told ya me Da raised me well."

Miss Catherine had barely gotten off the bed, when someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah?" Caleb called, and Tommy poked his head in.

"Boss?" he said, before tipping his hat at Miss Catherine. "Ah, didn't know yer here, Miss. G'morning."

Miss Catherine nodded back, and Tommy turned his attention to Caleb again.

"Mayor sent me for ya, Boss..." he trailed off for a moment, looking from Caleb to Miss Catherine and back. "Says he wants ya to look into what happened with the telegraph line."

Caleb frowned, and looked apologetically at Miss Catherine. "Guess there'll be a few more mouths at breakfast."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Additional warnings: Minor character death))

"I do think I speak for ev'ryone, but this is bullshit," Tommy grumbled as they rode along the near endless line of telegraph poles. "I mean, snatchin' a specific message off the wire like that?"

"Naw, _bullshit_ 's too weak a word," said Seán. Caleb just shook his head.

After the misadventure with Van Laren it was clear that someone intercepting Caleb's telegraph to New York had not been a side-effect of someone waiting for any other messages. Which would have meant that the intercepting had to have been done close to Glenvale.

Caleb had meant to search the town immediately, but Doc Yeung had put his foot down about Caleb staying in bed and getting some much needed rest.

A week had passed since then, and while the search around town had proven fruitless, the mayor had insisted that Caleb went to see if the interception had been done further out. So now, with the doc's clearance, Caleb had gotten Seán, Tommy and Matthews and set out, following the telegraphy line. 

Here they were now, about an hour from Glenvale, soaked to the bones after a nasty storm had come down almost out of nowhere.

And still nothing.

"I mean, what's the mayor hopin' we find?" Tommy rambled, "If there ain't anything in Glenvale, there won't be anything this far out. An' it's been a fortnight already..."

"Oh cut it out, Burke." That was Matthews. Then he turned to Caleb. "He's got a point, though. The mayor's bein' ridiculous."

"I know." Caleb frowned, not looking at the other men. This was a fuckin' pointless wild goose chase, and they all knew it. But they also knew that if they didn't find the slightest clue, Caleb's life was in concrete danger. Caleb appreciated the concern. But they were at the point where things had gotten to be too much.

He stopped his horse. "Alright, boys, this won't do. We won't find shite in this weather. Let's look for shelter."

There was an agreeing mumble from the other three men.

"Aren't we near Mr. Walters' farm?" Tommy squinted into the curtain of rain.

Caleb craned his neck. "Heh, I think yer right. Guess we can have shelter an' a nice meal..."

Caleb didn't have to look to know a broad grin was spreading on his men's faces.

The Walters farm was a nice bit of land with a sturdy little house and a solid big barn, and an owner who owed Caleb and his men big time. Which naturally meant the Walters weren't overly pleased to see Caleb and what remained of his posse at their door again.

"Mr. Quinn," Mrs. Walters greeted. "I heard you're back from Hell. Didn't expect you to show your arse 'round here, though."

"Pleasure seein' ya too, Ma'am," Caleb greeted back, tipping his hat. "We're out for the mayor, checking someone messing with them telegraphy lines."

Mrs. Walters rolled her eyes. "Are they down again? If so, you ought to head to Adder's Ridge; they really messed up setting up the poles there. Bloody things seem to fall over on a monthly basis."

If anything was clear from Mrs. Walters' tone, then it was that she didn't want Caleb and his men in her home.

"Good to know. Once the storm passes, we're gonna have a look," Caleb said, locking eyes with the woman while his men waited stoically behind him. "Yer husband not at home?"

"He's in the basement, putting away supplies." Mrs. Walters wrinkled her nose. And right on cue, Mr. Walter stepped into the house, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Mr. Quinn. I didn't expect to ever see you again."

Caleb rubbed his brow. "Well, it's what I promised, innit? Least necessity arises, right?"

Mr. Walters sighed. "The weather, yes..." He laid his head back in thought, before looking at his wife.

"Mr. Quinn's out for the mayor, checking the telegraph poles," she said.

Mr. Walters looked back at Caleb. "Don't they have people for that in Glenvale? Or Omaha?"

"'Parently the mayor decided we are said people." Caleb shrugged, inclining his head towards his little group. "Look, we ain't here to cause ya any trouble. We're just..."

"You cause trouble wherever you go, Mr. Quinn," Mrs. Walters interrupted.

Caleb rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. Listen, Ma'am. All we're asking for is some shelter an' some food. Once the storm passes, we'll be on our merry way, alright?"

Mrs. Walters glared profoundly, before scrunching up her nose in disgust. "But not a second longer." She turned to her husband. "I'll get them some blankets."

And she marched off.

"You can stay in the stable," Mr. Walters said. "And you have to for-"

Caleb raised a hand. "Naw, I get her. I'd be the fuckin' same in her situation."

Walters nodded. "You can bring your horses into the boxes in the stable. Ours are currently on a friend's farm, so there's enough space."

"Thank you." Caleb tilted his head in thought. "How yer doin', incidentally?"

"Pretty well, Mr. Quinn. It was a bit of a rough start, and the farm's by no means big, but we do what we can and it's not too bad a life."

A nod followed, and Caleb took the blankets off the returning Mrs. Walters.

"I'll bring you some soup later," she said, still rather cold, but there was a hint of her thawing.

"Never asked for more." Caleb grinned. He and Matthews stuffed the blankets under their coats to keep them dry, while Tommy and Seán went to get their horses. All in all, this _was_ more hospitality than Caleb had expected from Mrs. Walters.

The rain had long since turned the path between the house and the barn into a slippery stretch of mud.

Seán cursed heartily as he fell face first into the mud just at the barn door.

"Ya alright?" Tommy called.

"Yeah. Lemme tell ya, once we're back in Glenvale, I'll be taking enough baths to last me the next year." Seán wiped the mud off his clothes as he ducked into the barn.

"I'll be joining ya for one or two," Tommy teased with a broad grin, and looked around for the boxes for their horses, quirking a brow at what he found.

"Didn't Walters say them boxes are all empty?" He voiced what everyone was thinking, seeing a strange horse standing there.

Caleb laid a finger to his lips, hushing everyone before taking the bundle with the Redeemer off his back. He nodded Tommy and Seán to head to the two ladders leading up to the hayloft, and Matthews to move to the smaller door at the back.

Gun ready, Caleb ducked into the shadows, moving along below the hayloft's edge, eyes and ears fixed on the dark area above, waiting for the slightest movement.

There it was.

Caleb raised the gun, a little unsteadily, finger curling on the trigger...

"No! Stop!" someone called from above, just a moment too late for it not to be followed by a pained yelp.

Caleb inhaled sharply through gritted teeth; he knew that voice.

"Shit! Finley?" he called up, "Ya okay?" Holding his gun steady he waved Seán to get up there. A young man, a _boy_ , to be honest; stepped out of the shadows above, one hand holding his bleeding shoulder.

"Missed me by a hair, Sir," Finley called down. "The spear, that is. The barbs got me pretty well."

Caleb nodded curtly, yanking on the chain to dislodge it from the hay it had hit, and cranked the spear back in. "Get yer arse down here, Finn, and tell me what yer doin' here."

"The storm surprised me. Just been seeking shelter," Finley answered, climbing down the ladder with Seán's assistance. As soon as the boy was seated, Seán brought out a bottle of whiskey and a makeshift first-aid kit. Finley peeled out of his shirt, the others gathered around him, and Seán got to work.

"That's not yer horse in the box." Matthews noted, jabbing a thumb at where their animals were by now. "What happened to yer Loreley?"

"Same thing as with yer missus, Sir. Left her over at Miller's farm to get her foal." Then the rudeness of that comment sank in. "Sorry, Sir."

The men around Finley cackled, with the exception of Matthews, who just harrumphed.

"Eh, no offense taken, lad. I knows what ya mean," he said, waving Finley off.

Caleb sat down on a crate in front of the boy, leaning forward to look closer at him. "Ya know the farmhouse is pretty visible even in this weather? Ya could have asked for shelter."

"I panicked, Sir. Y'know I'm no good with thunderstorms." Finley scratched his head, hissing as Seán made to clean the wound with a good pour of whiskey.

"Doc Yeung will have t' stitch ya up, Finn," Seán murmured, dressing the wound the best he could.

"I know. I'm sorry. I thought ya was the owner, an' I got scared," the boy said, putting his shirt and jacket back on.

Caleb nodded at Tommy. "Tommy, go tell Mrs. Walters we'll need an extra serving an' another blanket."

Tommy nodded and got up, ducking out into the rain. Caleb turned his attention to Finley again, while Matthews and Seán went to tend to the horses.

"Heard yer out an' about gettin' yerself in trouble, Finn," he said, coughing a little.

Finley sighed. "I try not to, Sir."

"Matthews told me yer lookin' into a piece o' land at Sorrow Creek."

Finley bit his lips. "I mean I'm old enough now, Sir. An' it's good land."

"Yer barely seventeen. And it's haunted ground," Caleb said, glowering. "Why'd ya wanna go there?"

"'Cause no one else does. It'd be peaceful."

Caleb cocked his head. "And then ya'll go mad. Listen, Finn, Sorrow Creek is no joke." He patted his bad leg. "Take it from me, kid." He sat back up straight, hands on his knees and his eyes fixed on the boy before him. "Now, _why_ do you wanna settle in Sorrow Creek of all places?"

Finley scratched his neck. "'Tis what I said. It'd be peaceful. No one in town likes me."

"That's bullshit, an' ya know it."

But the boy shook his head. "No, Sir. I mean, sure, there's what's left of the gang, but asides from that? I gots no one else I can really talk to. I'm always dead weight hangin' on Seán or Matthews or Charlie. The Jansons hate me."

"Are ya surprised? Ya cut Mr. Janson's arm off."

"I know. I mean, I'm tryin' to make up for things like Seán and Tommy do, but... ya know I'm no good with that kinda stuff."

Caleb sighed. Finley was an odd case. He was fidgety; a bit clumsy and scatterbrained, until it came to throwing knives or hatchets; or picking locks or pockets. Then he seemed to be a whole different person. Finley was in fact the only member of the Hellshire Gang who could pick a lock faster than Caleb.

With the softest smile Caleb could muster, he squeezed Finley's good shoulder. "Ya need to find what yer good at, kid."

"That's the thing. Am good at throwing things an' pickin' locks, but ya can't really make a living out o' that."

"Ya can always join a circus," Tommy commented as he returned, playfully throwing a blanket at Finley. As Finley harrumphed, Tommy continued. "Mrs Walters said we gotta come to the house to eat. Weather's gettin' worse an' she don't wanna risk slipping with a can full o' hot soup."

Caleb nodded, calling over to Seán and Matthews. "Ya heard that?"

"Loud an' clear, boss," Seán called back, patting his horse before walking over. "Not to speak o' the Devil, but I think once the storm passes, we might as well go right back to Glenvale. Don't think we'll find how they got the message by now, an' if what Mrs. Walters said 'bout Adder's Ridge is true..."

Again Caleb nodded. "Yeah. Mayor's gonna be pissed." He scratched his chin in thought as he got up.

"What yer thinkin' of, boss?" Seán asked, packing things back up.

"Nothing in particular yet. Just lookin' at the bloody puzzle pieces I got so far." He rolled his shoulders with a resigning sigh. "Should be a lot easier with a full stomach."

Finley rose as well. "Ya think the owners will be alright with me being here? I mean, I broke into their barn."

"Well, ya didn't break into their house," Caleb said. "And it should be alright. Either way, Walters owes me one."

His men in tow, he headed for the door, knowing they'd be soaked even worse by the time they'd be over at the house. Well, maybe the Walters could spare a bath and some towels as well.

—

Not too far away, on a tree-covered hill overlooking the farm, a group of men would have welcomed the idea of a hot meal and some dry towels. Now, maybe they could just take it once the job was done.

"They ought to be soaked," one of them murmured as he walked up to their leader. "The buildings I mean."

"We ain't here for the buildings. I think Quinn's men will still be pretty flammable." The man's name was Van der Bruggen; commonly called Bridge; a Dutch-born outlaw Caleb had put behind Hellshire's bars a couple of years back who'd gotten out when the Hellshire Gang stormed the prison.

"They've prob'ly been out in the rain as long as them buildings. I have my doubts, boss."

Bridge grinned humourlessly at his companion, shaking his head. "Oh, we ain't really going to set them on fire, you know that. Unless they ain't clever enough to cooperate." He turned back to his gang. "Callaghan, Montero, get in position. If anyone comes out that isn't us, especially us dragging Quinn behind, make sure they don't-"

"Boss!" the man at Bridge's side called out. Bridge turned his attention back to the farm, watching as Caleb and his men left the barn, heading over to the house. And Bridge frowned darkly.

"Shame, really," he grunted. "Wouldn't have minded leaving the farmers out of this." He clicked his tongue, and his men descended the hill, the rain a curse and a blessing alike.

—

"I say, Mr. Quinn..." was Mrs. Walters' version of a greeting as she spotted Finley and gave Caleb a scrutinizing glance. "Is that your boy? Sure looks like you."

Whatever greeting Caleb had on his lips, it fell straight off, vanishing between the floorboards. Instead he blinked and looked at Finley. "Naw. An' no, he's not me boy. He's one of me men."

Behind him the others tried their best to suppress a snorting cackle.

Finley tipped his hat in greeting, but Mrs Walters shook her head. "Far too young for this nonsense. Ah, come on, sit down. Can't do anything about the rain, but I can do something to make you shut up about your empty stomachs."

There are things some people don't need to be told twice, and so Caleb and his men were seated around the small table before Mrs. Walters had even turned back to the stove.

Mr. Walters had just come back up from the basement, carrying a load of firewood.

"I'll be honest, Mr. Quinn," he said. "I do have a bad feeling about you being here."

"Lot of fellers do when I'm around," Caleb said. "But ya know, I'm here by pure chance. Blame the weather, blame the mayor. I'm not much o' a bounty hunter no more."

Mrs. Walters went around filling their bowls with soup, Tommy obviously itching to dig in, but minding the manners he had.

"You're still a bit of an ill omen, Mr. Quinn," Mrs. Walters said, putting the bowl aside before sitting down at the table.

"So I've been told, ma'am." He smiled as kindly as he could. "Hope I don't jinx it when I say I hope yer wrong in yer worries."

Mrs. Walters nodded, and they finally got to eat.

Matthews had a lot of praise for the soup, while Tommy showed his appreciation through actions. Caleb watched what was left of his gang a little wistfully, once more thinking about how everyone but him had gotten their life in order. Well, maybe not Finley, but even the lad had a plan. Not a good plan, not remotely so; but a plan. Caleb himself, meanwhile... he drifted from one thing life threw at him to the next.

He figured he'd have to sort that out sooner rather than later.

"What happened, Sir?" Finley suddenly spoke up innocently, looking at Mr. Walters, who definitely had his feathers ruffled by the question. His spoon dropped into the soup in front of him.

Caleb snapped out of his thoughts, looking at the young man next to him.

"I mean, Mr. Quinn mentioned you owe him one, that's why yer havin' us here," Finley continued babbling. "What happened?"

Next to him, Caleb grinned, thankful for the distraction. "Yeah, Walters, what happened that ya owe me one?"

Mr. Walters grimaced, and shook his head, as did his wife. Then he sighed. "Well, why don't you tell your boy?"

"He's not me boy," Caleb murmured, taken aback, and looked at Tommy. "Yer better at tellin' them stories, Tommy."

Tommy, mouth filled with bread, looked up in alarm and pointed, a bit panicky, at himself.

"Yes, you." Caleb smiled mischievously. "Ya brought it up, ya might as well elaborate."

Tommy cast the group a brief glare, chewed begrudgingly and wiped his mouth. "Alright. 'Twas not too long before the boss nearly lost his leg, Finn. One night in Wisconsin a strange man approached the boss."

Seán rolled his eyes. "'Concerned party' that bastard called himself. Tried to trick us into goin' after innocents."

"He'd been convincing," Caleb mused, sitting back in his chair. "I despise sayin' this, but I guess we got to give fuckin' Bayshore credit for that plan."

Finley stared, fascinated at hearing those words come out of Caleb's mouth. "What plan?"

"Comin' to that," Tommy said, propping his elbows on the table. "Ya see, this guy presented the boss with information about Walters here, namin' a high bounty, but always talkin' 'round what Walters did. He had a way 'bout himself that made us assume the worst, and we set out east, ultimately tracking Walters here down to the Ohio border." He paused. "Boss knew something was wrong..."

"Flattered yer painting me like that, Tommy, but, naw, I didn't," Caleb admitted. "Not in that sense at least. Just knew something was fishy when we found that little cabin."

Tommy nodded. "So we track our mark down," he inclined his head towards Mr. Walters, "and corner him in a little cabin. Made short note of things; got him hogtied; Mrs. Walters makin' quite the scene. We ride off, an' what d'ya know, Doyle forgets his bloody gun at the cabin."

"That's what ya were all teasin' him with," Finley said, eyes wide in surprise.

Tommy nodded with a self-satisfied grin. "Never had him hear the end o' it."

"He had it comin'," Seán added. "What with him always being on our arses 'bout stuff like that."

"Heh, yeah." Tommy leaned back and folded his hands. "So, the boss, me an' Doyle ride back, just in case... I mean," he cast a sideways glance at Mrs. Walters. "She was really rattled. An' I did feel sorry for her, personally. Ya never know what people do in such situations..."

An agreeing murmur went around the table.

"We found her crying her eyes out. An' when she saw the boss, she launched herself at him."

"Credit where it's due, Mrs. Walters, you do throw a mean uppercut."

Mrs. Walters actually smiled at that. "You had it coming, Mr. Quinn."

"Debatable," Caleb said, nodding at Tommy to continue.

"Naw, the punchline's all yours, boss."

Caleb grinned, then paused. The grin fell and he quirked a brow at Tommy, while Seán cackled quietly. Caleb drew a sharp breath. "Don't remember all the shit Mrs. Walters here threw at me, but in her tirade she began cursing bloody Bayshore."

"Why's that?" Finley asked.

"Turns out all these big words that guy what contacted me 'bout Mr. Walters used to describe his 'crimes' boiled down to Mr. Walters havin' been Bayshore's accountant... and snatched some money from the fucker."

Finley cocked his head in doubt, looking at Mr. Walters. "An accountant?"

"Back then, yes," Mr. Walters said. "You see, I knew there was something wrong with the numbers to begin with, but I didn't dare bring it up. You know the kind of person Henry Bayshore is. I was scared. But I had to do something. I couldn't sleep at night. So... I did what I can do better than him, and played tricks with the numbers. Gave a bit back to charity and the like; kept a little bit for me. But he caught on... and put Quinn here on my track. My guess is he wanted to add insult to injury should Quinn learn the truth _after_ I was imprisoned... and probably dead."

Caleb nodded. "So what else was I to do than to free him an' tell him to bugger off. Start a new life somewhere."

"Here? Of all places?" Finley blinked.

"Hiding under Bayshore's nose. He had it coming." Caleb smiled, satisfied. "By now the charges are dropped. Bayshore found a scapegoat for the 'false accusations', too, of course."

"So ya let him go 'cause he screwed Bayshore over?" said Finley. Caleb nodded.

Then the sound of a gun being cocked echoed through the room.

"Who'd have thought you have a heart, Quinn."

Everyone at the table jumped up as Bridge stepped round the little doorway, aiming his gun at the group. As did the four men at his side. Behind Caleb and the others, the back door opened and another three of Bridge's men entered the little room, all armed; and by all means all too eager; to put some new holes into Caleb and his companions.

"Hands off your weapons, if you'd be so kind," Bridge intoned. In the back, Mr. Walters was pulling his wife to the side, holding her protectively.

"Bridge," Caleb greeted dryly, "I'd say it's a pleasure seeing ya again, but it ain't."

"The feeling's mutual. Heard you're back from Hell." Bridge looked at the group, stopping on Finley. "Huh. So I did see that right at Hellshire. You got a kid by now. Sure looks like you."

With a hint of confusion Caleb looked where Bridge was looking. "He's not me kid." Caleb frowned, turning back. "What brings ya here? Fallen on hard times? Robbing farmsteads wasn't yer thing usually."

He silently weighed their chances, and wagered his men were doing the same. Bridge and his men were fully armed; rifles and revolvers and knives and all; while Caleb had his six shooter and a knife, and his group had their revolvers. Finley only had his knives, however, and the Redeemer was not made for indoor use. Sure, its bayonet would have been an option, but the bloody thing was laying on the chest by the door.

All in all, their chances were rat-shit. Thus Caleb rose his hands, nodding at his men to do the same.

"So, what is it?" He asked again.

"It's you, come to think of it." Bridge answered.

"Next time just send a letter if ya wanna see me."

"Still as much a loudmouth as I remember." With a small nod Bridge signaled one of the guys at his side to go and collect the weapons of Caleb's men. Seán moved to draw, but Caleb shook his head before looking back at Bridge.

"Ya want revenge? I'm the last to stop ya," he said with attempted nonchalance, but couldn't help but glare as Bridge's men collected their weapons, putting them alongside the bundle with the Redeemer, and thus out of reach.

Bridge shook his finger, tutting at Caleb. "I want revenge, sure. But, funny thing, Quinn; someone's paying quite generously for your head. As long as it's still on your shoulders with a functioning body underneath. Much to my dismay."

Caleb cocked his head in question, and bit back a 'Not again'. As if the misadventure with Van Laren hadn't been enough.

"Your men however," Bridge continued, casting a sharp glare at Seán, who leaned away carefully. "Well, no one's paying us for their heads." Then he looked around. "'Tis a nice house, would be cruel to mess it up." Not taking his eyes off Caleb, he addressed his men. "Cooper, Rocha, take Burke and O'Brian here outside and see to them. Hobbs, Padmore, you take care of Matthews." His eyes briefly shifted to Finley, then back to Caleb. "Dunno what to do with your boy, Quinn."

"He's not my..." Caleb didn't get further.

Desperate situations make humans do a lot of none-too-wise things. Mr. Walters was, unfortunately, no exception to this. The moment the attention of Bridge and his men were fully on Caleb, Walters grabbed his wife and ducked out the back door into the rain.

Two shots rang out.

And a despairing cry.

Through the window Caleb saw Mrs. Walters huddled wide-eyed behind some crates on the porch holding her arm, her husband laying sprawled on the stairs, his head bloody.

"Snipers, Bridge? Really?" Caleb growled.

"It's his own fault he ran," Bridge noted with a shrug. "I wouldn't have minded sparing the couple. 'Tis not their fault they let you in, no matter what."

Another, smaller growl from Caleb. "Any truth to them pretty words, Bridge? Let me get the woman back in an' see to her wound."

Bridge cocked his head, nodded at one of his men first, then at Caleb.

Bridge's man, a guy Caleb recognized as Algernon Fisher, stepped out onto the porch and made an odd gesture with his hand, before waving Caleb to follow.

As Caleb did, however, Mrs. Walters jumped up, tackling Fisher with a maddened screech. Caleb lunged forward, pulling both to the ground as another shot rang out, shattering the window. From inside a strangled cry was heard, and Caleb hazarded a glance. A part of him wanted to smile, as the shot had hit one of Bridge's men; Padmore, if Caleb remembered correctly; right in the back, with little probability of survival.

And maybe Van der Bruggen being a complete asshole paid off that moment, as instead of opening fire on Caleb's men, Bridge stepped out into the rain, raised his rifle and fired into the nearby trees.

Another cry followed.

"Who told you to shoot, Callaghan?" he shouted, hitting Caleb with the butt of his weapon for good measure. "Now get that woman inside. And her hubby too."

Caleb grunted, pulling himself off Fisher and waving Seán and Matthews to come outside.

"Ya alright, Boss?" Matthews murmured to Caleb as Seán tried his best to maneuver Mrs. Walters inside, and he and Caleb made to pick up Mr. Walters.

"Right as rain," Caleb murmured back, though he had to blink away the blood from the wound Bridge's hit caused. "How did it end the last time we were in this kinda mess?"

"Two o' our men dead, three of Bridge's, Charlie missin' an eye."

Caleb chuckled bitterly, grabbing Mr. Walters' shoulders. And almost dropped him again as the man suddenly groaned. He spun around. "He's still alive!"

Everyone stopped whatever they were doing, staring at Caleb.

"He's fucking still alive!" Caleb repeated, a bit louder, before checking the wound. "Yer man's shot fuckin' well just grazed him, Bridge."

Inside, Mrs. Walters fainted, Tommy and Seán barely catching her, while Fisher cocked his gun at Walters.

"Easy problem t' solve," he said, and Caleb grabbed at his wrist, the shot hitting the lamp by the door, and Caleb's fist hitting Fisher square in the face, sending the man sprawling. Caleb didn't stop beating the man until he felt the barrel of Bridge's revolver on his neck.

"You really haven't lost your temper, Quinn," Bridge said somberly. "And it's still doing you little favor. Now get up."

Caleb raised his hands and got back to his feet. ...On the second attempt, as Fisher took the opportunity to kick him hard in the bad leg, sending him back to the ground.

"Let me boys get Walters to Glenvale. We got a good doctor there," Caleb groaned, inclining his head at Tommy in the doorway without taking his eyes off the weapon.

"That Doc Yeung?" Bridge asked, nodding Fisher to move from behind Caleb. "Heard of him." He lolled his head a little, and smiled. "Know what, Quinn. I'll humor you. I actually heard your boys got their lives in order, and who am I to take that away from them?" He spun and shot Tommy in the leg. "Look at me, even giving them a means to take a break from work."

Tommy held his leg in pain, and Caleb knew he had to think quickly. He knew everyone was itching for a shoot-out, himself included. But that little voice in his head urged him to get the Walters and his boys out of this as unharmed as possible. Maybe for once in his rotten life, he ought to listen to it.

"Then do as ya say. Let them go. Alive an' well. I'll be comin' peacefully," Caleb said.

"You know, I'd be makin' sure you'll be coming along whether they're dead or alive." Bridge pondered, tracing the barrel of his gun over Caleb's jaw. "Just saying."

"I won't struggle if ya go an' tie me up," Caleb grinned like a madman. Everyone had their weaknesses, and he remembered Bridge's desire to humiliate him all too well. "Won't even protest 'gainst a gag."

Bridge quirked a brow. "You know, Quinn. You're lucky I _am_ a man of my word." He turned back to his men. "Hobbs, Simonsen, you see 'bout them getting to Glenvale well. Kill them if they try to follow you back to camp. As for you, Quinn..."

The knee to the stomach knocking the air out of Caleb was expected, but that helped nothing with Caleb gasping for air, vision blurry, and barely able to signal his men to stay back.

"Get Walters an' Tommy to the Doc," he coughed. "I'll be fine. Tell Josie to get you an' Bridge's wankers some coffee. Get that good stuff she gave me when I met Jacobs..." 

Bridge kicked him in the side of the head, sending him back to the ground twitching.

Caleb's men looked at each other, and finally Seán helped Tommy up while Finley and Matthews grabbed Walters, retreating through the front door.

Caleb looked up at Bridge blearily, trying to push himself back up. Unnecessarily as Bridge grabbed him by the hair, slamming his head against the wooden railing. Caleb hoped the cracking sound was the wood and not his skull. Next thing he knew, Bridge and Fisher were on him, a knee on his back, one of them pulling his arms back with enough force to almost pull them from their sockets. Caleb couldn't bite back the yelp, making Bridge chuckle darkly.

Tied up and gagged like a pig ready to be roasted, they heaved Caleb onto Bridge's horse, Bridge slapping Caleb's arse to hammer home the victory. Caleb grunted against the gag, praying he hadn't made a grave, very grave, mistake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Additional Warnings: minor character death, torture, drugs, needles, blood, vomit))

One of the abilities that makes a good bounty hunter is a good sense of orientation. Caleb took some satisfaction in Bridge remembering this almost an hour after they had left the Walters' farm. Unfortunately, when Bridge remembered, it resulted in a blindfold and a punch to the shoulder that Caleb was almost certain had cracked a collarbone.

The ride continued for roughly four hours, with Caleb figuring Bridge was riding in circles to disorient him, until Caleb heard some commotion nearby. Over the years, he had gotten a fine ear for gears and his surroundings, and he didn't like what he heard. While he'd figured that Bridge likely would have gotten some new people into his gang, the sheer number of voices pointed to at least two dozen people at wherever they were currently heading.

Then the horse stopped, and by the sound of it, Bridge and his little group were immediately surrounded by the others.

"What fuckin' devil did you make a deal with to actually get him, Bridge?" someone called, voice full of vicious amazement, and Caleb recognized the speaker as Todd Sullivan, one of the first bounties he'd ever put behind bars.

The punch that hit him in the side of the head should have been something he expected. He groaned dizzily.

"Now, now, Sullivan," Bridge scolded mockingly, "let's get Quinn off the horse first."

'Get off the horse' apparently meant Bridge shoving Caleb off. Thankfully the ground was muddy, or Caleb's collarbone and shoulder would've definitely been broken.

Several pairs of hands grabbed at him, pulling him upright as someone yanked off the blindfold.

Caleb blinked rapidly, and the world slowly came back into focus. He didn't like what he was seeing at all.

There were two, maybe three dozen men in the little woodland camp, most of them familiar faces, not one of them a friendly one. The initial surprise they displayed quickly shifted to grim joy. More and more of them rose, coming over to surround the little group.

"I'll tell you what will happen now, Quinn," Bridge leaned closer, murmuring into Caleb's ear. "Most of the men here have some bones to pick with you. I'll let them. It'd be fair, don't you think?"

Caleb growled, but again was cut short by a punch to the stomach. He staggered, but someone pulled him back up by his hair.

"They won't kill you, Quinn," Bridge continued, while a couple of his men made to get Caleb out of his coat and shirt, and removed his leg brace. "But they will hurt you. Fair's fair."

Caleb struggled against the hands grabbing at him. He wanted to fight, to lash out at the men around him the moment his hands were free. His heart pounded with rage. A part of him told him he didn't stand a chance. Caleb didn't listen to it, no matter how futile his attempts at getting free were. And then, the moment the brace was off, someone pulled his good leg away from under him, making him land on his bad knee with a brief cracking sound. He bit against the gag, body cramping in pain, as Bridge's men moved closer. He knew what'd come now before the first boot connected with his side.

Bridge watched the proceeding grimly, before he called his men over. Well, those that weren't busy with Caleb.

"Fisher, Rocha, get Quinn's gear into the cabin. Cooper, go and get that bullet out of Callaghan's shoulder."

The men nodded, with only Callaghan mumbling sourly. "There was no need to shoot me, boss."

"There was. I thought I had made it clear about when to shoot and when not."

"But..."

Bridge raised his hand to stop him, glowering darkly. "Cut it out, Callaghan. All good it did was killing Padmore; don't matter why you did it. Now go get that wound seen to." As Callaghan and the others left, Bridge turned back to the proceedings and watched for a while, listening to the muffled howls and grunts.

"That's enough of that," he called out, and the men slowly stopped, turning towards him. Almost leisurely Bridge walked over, looking down at Caleb's beaten form. Caleb's face was bloody, the left eye had begun to swell shut; the fair hair stained dark by blood and mud. There were bruises forming all over his bare chest, and blood dripped steadily from rips and gashes.

And yet Caleb tried to push himself up the moment Bridge's men stopped their work; tried to launch himself at any of his assailants. It ended with a swift, hard kick to the chest, sending Caleb back to the ground, wheezing. The world around him span and darkened, his chest burning with every breath.

He knew people around him were talking; faintly recognized Bridge barking some order, but everything was a dull mumbling. Everything but these odd whispers that frightened him. Something deep inside him knew this sound didn't come from any of the men around him, and it wasn't the blood rushing and gurgling in his ears. Then someone pulled him upright again, slamming him face first against a tree and pulling his arms around the trunk to tie them together on the other side.

The world was still a blurry, muffled mess, and Caleb dully wondered if the wetness on the side of his face was mud or blood, and if the latter, if it was from one of the wounds on his head or the blood dripping from his ear. Something sharp hit him across the back, the pain burning cold, even with his body slowly numbing. He wanted to sleep.

Just sleep.

Icy cold water splashed over him, dragging him back from falling unconscious, and he heard the men laughing; saw their blurred forms moving away from him. Just a break, he knew that. Not for him; for them. He felt sick and helpless; wondered if the others were alright. Josie would get the hint, wouldn't she? He hoped so. He closed his eyes. Maybe he could get a moment of rest.

But as his eyes fluttered shut, the dark edges around his vision shifted; began crawling over what he could see like tendrils; like vines. Twitching and convulsing in ways that had nothing to do with him losing consciousness.

He snapped wide awake, his heart pounding, his breath quick against the gag. He was scared. And, a small part of him mused, if he was _lucky_ , Bridge's men would think he was scared of them.

He'd let them. Because, truth be told, he was. He was stubborn to the point of being self-destructive. Josie had scolded him for that often enough, and lately even Miss Catherine had joined in. But he wouldn't let anyone know what it truly was that rattled him like this. Mostly on account of him not knowing it either.

But he was scared of them. At least, he mused, these were Bridge's men. Caleb could, at the bottom line, respect someone like Bridge, who had at least most of his morals intact. If this were Prescott or O'Hearn, Caleb knew it would be much worse. And that was saying something.

Caleb took a few deep breaths the best he could, and dug his nails into the bark, trying to keep himself upright, no matter how much his legs were protesting.

By the shuffling sounds around, he could tell some of the men were done with their break.

And then suddenly someone was behind him, fingers twisting into his hair and pulling his head back roughly.

"Remember me, Quinn?" the guy breathed, his scarred face far too close to Caleb's for the latter's comfort.

Caleb grunted against the gag. He knew that ugly mug, but he was in no state of mind to connect it with a name.

"No?" The man asked, slamming Caleb's head against the tree before letting go. "Don't matter, y'know... I'll make ya remember..."

Caleb shook his head, trying to focus, and watched the man pick up a rifle and take position a couple of feet away. He brought the weapon up...

"Mitchell!" One of the men at the nearby fire jumped up, alarmed. "What are y' _doing_?"

"What am I _doing_? Yer really asking that?" Mitchell sounded angry and insulted, and then a shot rang out, hitting the tree just next to Caleb's face. Caleb barely managed to turn away to avoid a face-full of splinters.

"The boss said..." the guy at the fire protested, but Mitchell just sneered.

"For all the talk 'bout gettin' payback on Quinn...," he barked, firing another shot that grazed Caleb's shoulder before hitting the tree again. "There's so much we could do, an' he'd deserve it." A third shot, this one hitting Caleb square in the already injured arm, making him howl in pain. "We could just kill him. But no. The boss' makin' all these rules an'..."

He didn't get further.

A different shot rang out and Mitchell dropped his weapon, staggering back with a horrified cry and holding a gushing wound in his side. Bridge came up from between the trees, a smoking revolver raised.

"And I expect them to be followed, Mitchell. I believe I told you this before," Bridge sneered, glaring down at the man at the ground. "You know what's at stake."

"You're such a cow-..."

Another shot, hitting Mitchell right between the eyes. Bridge holstered his gun, and turned to his men.

"I draw clear lines, and I expect each of you to respect them," he exclaimed, spreading his arms. "You all knew that when you joined me. Mitchell knew that when he begged me to let him join. And since then, he has failed time and time again to _respect_. _My_. _Rules_. These rules don't cease to exist because we have Caleb Quinn in our hands. He is a thorn in the side for many of us, a thorn that will be plucked out soon enough. And that plucking is part of an agreement; one I expect all of you to respect. You _all_ know what's at stake."

There was a murmur of agreement rumbling through the group, and Caleb wondered what exactly Bridge was talking about. He knew he should know the answer-hadn't Bridge actually told him already?-but he couldn't think of it.

"Get Quinn into the cabin," Bridge commanded, "and get Mitchell out of my sight."

Caleb slumped backwards as the ties holding him to the tree were removed, groaning in growing agony as two men dragged him along, his bare heels scraping against the mud and rough stone of the forest floor. He found himself doing a mental tally of his injuries, almost laughing as he figured it'd be easier to keep a tally of what parts of him were still in one piece.

Bridge's cabin was quite a way off from the camp, but it was warm and dry. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, the small bed was clean, the table wasn't, and there were shelves and cabinets all around, most of them filled with books and maps.

By the looks of it, the table had been moved to the side to make space between two wooden pillars, coarse ropes hanging from them. Bridge's men navigated Caleb between the pillars, tying the ropes around his wrists and pulling him up to the point where his toes were barely touching the ground. His shoulders screamed as they threatened to pop from their sockets, if not rip off his body entirely.

He gritted his teeth as he watched the men leave, and glared at Bridge the best his injured eyes allowed.

"Don't look at me like that, Quinn." Bridge shook his head and removed the gag. "You an' your men have wronged many of the fellers out there the same way. I believe it's called 'karma'."

Caleb spat. "Don't gimme that, Bridge."

"Why not? It's true, whether you like it or not. What? Are you telling yourself Bayshore and Lowell were the only people you did this shit to? Or that everyone else deserved it?"

"So it's an eye for'n eye then?" Caleb hissed, trying to pull on the ropes to maybe get some better footing. "If it is, why did ya kill that guy for trying to kill me?"

"I made a bargain, Quinn. One I'm planning to uphold. And Mitchell had overstepped the lines I drew one time too often."

Caleb cocked his head a little, wondering what that meant.

Bridge smiled, murmured something under his breath, and picked a red-hot poker from the fire. "You know what's coming next, don't you?"

Caleb gritted his teeth again, trying to lean away, as pointless as the action was. The metal connected with the skin of his chest with a sizzling sound, and once more his vision went dark for a moment. Bridge slapped him awake.

"There. Doesn't feel so great when you're on the receivin' end, does it?" Bridge sneered. "And yes, I'd have loved to have an actual branding iron, but beggars can't be choosers."

"That was unnecessary..." Caleb breathed, blinking away tears. This was getting to be too much, even if he'd be damned to admit it.

"Was it necessary when you did that to me?" Bridge lifted Caleb's chin up with his free hand, holding it steady to keep him from biting.

And Caleb grinned like a madman, swaying deliriously in his bounds. "Ya wouldn't give up when we got ya."

"And you're not giving up now. Difference is, I had done nothing wrong when you got your hands on me." With that, Bridge let go of Caleb's face, taking a step back.

"Robbery, murder, counterfeiting and all, that ain't 'nothing', Bridge," Caleb responded. "Ya were and are a wanted man, and I was a bounty hunter. If it hadn't been me, it'd have been someone else. I was doin' me _job_."

"'Doing my job'," Bridge snarled. "You know who'd also tell you that line? Bastards that hunted escaped slaves down south."

"Don't you dare compare me to shit like that," Caleb barked, glaring. Bridge smacked him across the face with the now cooled poker.

"What else _are_ you, Quinn? You bring in slaves by another name. For Christ's sake, they even have it in the fuckin' law that that shit's perfectly fine as 'punishment for crimes'. And you know that, Quinn. Just 'cause you didn't go all the way across the ocean..."

Caleb looked away, but Bridge harshly pulled his head back to face him.

"You've been in prison for fifteen years, Quinn, and still you went to make others suffer the same you did, and for what? Some extra meals, money... And, oh, of course, revenge. You're a self-righteous bastard, Quinn. All the things you did, all the people you made suffer; all for this fuckin' lust for revenge..."

Caleb gritted his teeth, staring at Bridge. Then something in him broke. "Do you think I don't _know_ that?" he shouted. "Why d'ya think I been spending me evenings in the company of whiskey and morphine? Wasn't for the leg."

For a moment Bridge was taken aback, then he smacked Caleb across the face again. "Don't give me this self-pity."

"It's all I have, now, innit?" Caleb cried back, straining against the bounds. "I know yer thinkin' it and yer right; I'm horrible at makin' the right decisions."

Bridge looked at Caleb, and a silent moment passed. "But?" he then asked.

Caleb shook his head. "No 'but'. I know what I've done. And I know where it had me end up. There _are_ cases I'm proud of, like Prescott or the Thompson brood."

With a curt nod Bridge acknowledged the truth in that.

"Ya can't argue they don't deserve it, if not much worse. Hangin' would have been too good for them." Caleb looked away again. "Heh, it's the bloodloss talkin', innit?"

"It makes you a favorable company, that's for certain."

Caleb huffed. "But others? I met people I saw meself in, an' I still delivered them to Hellshire's gate..."

"The day's full of surprises," Bridge murmured. "I didn't expect _you_ to have a conscience."

"I have too much o' it. Ya want some? Ya seem to need it."

Bridge simply snorted briefly and dismissively.

"The fact that I did some good with it helped me rest at night," Caleb murmured.

"Like with them Walters? Would _you_ have spared the guy had he stolen from anyone else?"

Caleb didn't answer.

"But I'll give you that, Quinn, 'tis a good little farm they got there. Much better than juggling numbers for the likes of Bayshore, that's for certain."

Caleb couldn't help but grin, hissing briefly as a freshly crusted cut ripped open again.

"Was Walters the only one?" Bridge asked.

"No. There were people here an' there I let go. Fellers what had nothing to do with Bayshore." He smiled weakly. "Ya were one of'em, remember? New Hamelin?"

Bridge grunted. "And yet it was all for naught, 'cause the warden and Bayshore had made you nothing but a pawn."

Caleb shook his head. "Not a pawn. A pawn can become the most powerful piece on the board; I was... I dunno..." he sighed heavily, "I dunno 'nuff 'bout chess." His breath made a rattling sound. "I made a lot of enemies," he grinned sadly. "You ought to know. You gathered most of 'em." Caleb inclined his head towards the window. "Kelly an' his gang 'round, too?"

"No. And truth be told, I tried finding him. Last I heard, he was pulling some heist in California, but no one's seen him since."

"Can't help ya there. I had expected him to show up 'round now. Instead I got _you_."

"Pleasure's all mine," Bridge retorted with a smirk.

Caleb smiled tiredly. "Saw a lot of yer ol' gang out there. Heh. Is Booker still tryin' to make a livin' pretending to be me?"

Bridge shrugged. "Naw."

Caleb nodded, then paused. "'S Booker still alive even?"

Another shrug. "Haven't seen the little rat since Hellshire, truth be told."

"Good riddance. Bet ya, with how the recent weeks been going, I'll have 'im on me heels within the next month."

"Doubt you'll live that long, Quinn." Caleb opened his mouth to respond to that, but Bridge continued. "What do you mean, though?"

Caleb raised his head the best he could. "'Bout a week ago I had a bit of an unpleasant run-in with Van Laren in Omaha."

"The Devil's Blacksmith?" Bridge furrowed his brow.

"The same. Ya know, with all life's been throwing at me lately, yer a bit of a few steps down fr-..." The rest of the sentence was cut off as Bridge slammed his fist into Caleb's stomach, making the other retch and gasp for air, bile hitting the back of his teeth.

"Don't compare me to someone like Van Laren, Quinn; don't you dare."

"I'll stop when ya come back up from his level, Bridge," Caleb croaked, coughing. He tried to get his lungs to work properly again, eying Bridge as he walked across the room to a small cabinet. Caleb couldn't see what was in it, but he had all means to assume he wouldn't like it, given what had happened so far.

"I think he's got enough, Bridge," came a voice from the door. Caleb turned his head, squinting in an attempt to focus on the figure in the doorway.

"Owen Maddox." Caleb didn't even try to hide his surprise. "Bridge's really gathering ev'ryone's who gots some bones t' pick with me..."

"Pleasure's all mine, Quinn," Maddox rumbled, stepping closer. He looked Caleb up and down for a moment, before his fist connected painfully with Caleb's jaw. Caleb spat blood, straining against his bounds and glaring at Maddox, who had turned back to Bridge. "How much of this shit's your work, Bridge? Last time I saw Quinn, he didn't look like a dog's breakfast."

"Just the fresh wounds. Some broken bones, too." Bridge said, musing over something he had pulled from the cabinet. "There'll be some more nasty bruises showing in a bit. But the rest? That must have been someone else, even though we got some older wounds to reopen."

Maddox looked at Caleb again, his gaze now more thoughtful. Very thoughtful, in fact, which was intriguing, all things considered. Caleb wisely bit back the question.

"Bridge?" Maddox called. "Dunno if you noticed, but someone shot Mitchell, an' no one's telling me why."

Bridge shrugged. "'Twas me. He broke the rules one time too often."

Maddox nodded understandingly. "Good, then. Was kinda worried you're letting the men kill each other over nothing."

"I draw clear lines, Owen. My men know not to cross them. And if they don't know, they're not my men, and you know what I do to intruders that cause trouble." He shook his head. "I should have dealt with Mitchell before, like you insisted..."

"Told you, he'd been a better fit for Prescott's gang, an' you knew that. An' he's a horrible shot."

"That saved Quinn's life, truth be told." Bridge nodded bitterly and crossed his arms. "How did the meeting go?"

"As expected. But..." Maddox looked back at Caleb, chewed his lips in thought, and turned back to Bridge with a gloomy expression. "I still don't trust that guy."

Bridge arched a brow. "Neither do I, Owen, but..."

"Bridge, I'm saying this as a friend, there's something outstandingly wrong with your Mr. Lynwood."

"As if your man in the black poncho is any better. At least my contact's got a name." Then he cast a suspicious glance at Caleb, before shaking his head at Maddox. "Not here. Quinn doesn't need to hear this."

"Quinn absolutely needs to hear this," Maddox said dryly. "Look, we both agree that it's odd enough that Lynwood and the man in black contacted us in this short of a succession, but, Bridge, you always say you know people. Who do you rather trust?"

"Neither, and you know that. But what Lynwood's offering..."

"He's offering revenge an' the means to live 'a good life', yes." Maddox looked meaningfully at Caleb. "Didn't you just give Quinn here a little speech about how the lust for revenge and selfishness screwed him over in the end?"

"He absolutely did," Caleb commented, lips twisting into a bloodied grin.

Bridge took a deep breath and pinched his nose. "Use my own words against me, will you?" He shook his head "I know, I know; practice what you preach; but, Owen, you saw the numbers. It'd be enough for all of us to start over somewhere nice."

"Bridge..." Maddox cocked his head. "Who can you name who'd be able to offer that much money for Quinn's life?"

"Oh, I know that one..." Caleb murmured, and Maddox looked at him.

"Bayshore's dead," he said, shaking his head. "You made damn sure of that."

Caleb grinned lopsided. "Did I? Ya wanna know the truth? I have no bloody clue what happened in them two years between me boys draggin' Bayshore and the warden off and Seán an' Tommy findin' me on the side of the road more dead than alive."

"So we heard," Bridge said, sitting back in a chair. "And true, no one ever found ol' Bayshore's body, but then again you had Burke blow up the bloody commons."

Caleb shook his head. "No such thing. Tommy and what's left of me posse split from the others lookin' for me. Tommy does say the explosion didn't feel right."

Bridge turned back to Maddox. "And Quinn's but one man. We killed for money before, and we'd have him off our backs once and for all." He narrowed his eyes at Maddox. "You were on board with the plan till now; what happened?"

"Thinking happened, Bridge. Y'know, the thing you claim you're so good at?" He looked sharply at Caleb, then back at Bridge. "You're right, Bridge, maybe Quinn doesn't need to hear this."

With a hint of worry, Caleb watched Maddox walk over to the cabinet and pull out a small box and a syringe, which was quickly filled with a milky liquid.

"Knocking you out with a punch won't do, Quinn," Maddox answered the unasked question as he stepped back over, pulling a belt around Caleb's arm tightly. "This will sting a bit."

Caleb grinned tiredly as the needle pierced his skin, the comment on how he had worse today dying on his lips as a cold unconsciousness overtook him.

"Now tell me," Bridge began as Maddox removed the belt from Caleb's arm, "was that little speech just now for Quinn?"

"No. I have been doing some thinking, and all I said is what I mean." Maddox reached up to undo the ties, staggering a little as he caught Caleb. "Oh, he's heavier than he looks."

"Could have told you. What are you up to?"

"Get him to bed. You and the men put him through Hell, and he needs the rest. I'll see to his wounds."

Bridge cocked his head in surprise. "You're helping him?"

"I'm doing the right thing."

Bridge frowned darkly. "What kind of thinking happened that you're stabbing me in the back like this?"

"I'm not _stabbing_ your back, I'm having it." As carefully as he could, Maddox maneuvered Caleb onto the little bed in the cabin and nodded with satisfaction. Then he turned back to the cabinet and picked up a different box, a bowl of water, and a cloth before sitting down on the edge of the bed. "The branding was a bit much, don't you think?"

Without a word Bridge pulled his own shirt to the side, showing the branding the Hellshire gang had left him with. "Fair's fair."

Maddox shrugged, seeing to Caleb's wounds the best his limited resources allowed it, not looking at Bridge as he spoke. "I don't like how this is going. And you know exactly why. This is exactly the kind of bee in your bonnet that's gone sideways before."

"It won't this time. This isn't as big as..."

"It's still the same shit." Maddox glowered. "How many of the men out there do you want to lose? After promising them the means for a new life." He laughed wistfully and bitterly. "A new life; that's what you always promise people. The means to start over. Well, you kept that promise in a way, didn't you?"

Bridge leaned back, letting things sink in, and chuckled just as bitterly. "I guess I did. This isn't what I had in mind, though."

"No one had this in mind." Maddox finished dressing the wounds and put his utensils to the side. He sat quietly for a while, lost in thoughts. "Never got 'round to asking you this in all this time... You miss the others?"

A nod. "If you want the truth, my friend, it _does_ hurt to see who isn't around. It hurts real bad."

Maddox rubbed his chin in thought. "And that's exactly why I'm telling you to be careful with this. Something isn't right, and it's exactly the same kind of wrong we've seen before."

Once again Bridge fell silent, his arms crossed and his chin sunken onto his chest in thought. "So, what's _your_ plan, then?"

"Your Mr. Lynwood wants Quinn alive. Rendezvous in three days at nightfall. Give Quinn that time to rest; I'll be riding to Glenvale."

Bridge arched a brow. "You're ratting us out to Quinn's men?"

"I'm getting information. Lynwood knew Quinn would be in that area, and we both were too thick to ask how he'd know that proper. I'll see if I can get my hands on O'Brian; he's talkative."

After a long pause, Bridge nodded. "Be careful."

"I will. Hey, took us long enough to find each other after all what happened. You're not going to get rid of me this easily." Maddox grinned and rose. "I'll best be on my way, then. If I see Hobbs and Simonsen..."

"Tell them to stay with you."

Maddox nodded, stretched and left.

Bridge took a deep breath, tiredly rubbing his face. This wasn't going as planned, but he wasn't certain if he was unhappy about it.

For an hour or two he sat reading, with some of his men coming in to report from scouting or hunting. It was around nightfall when Bridge was startled by an odd sound. A whimper of sorts, one that sent a shiver down his spine.  
It took him a moment of utter confusion to locate the source.

Caleb.

"That's not a sound I'd ever expected to hear from you, Quinn," Bridge murmured, quite baffled, and stepped just close enough to the bed to be out of reach should Caleb be awake and planning on jumping at him.

As no such thing happened, he crouched down at the side of the bed, wincing as he saw Caleb's face. Whatever Caleb was dreaming of, it wasn't pleasant. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead; his breath ragged and quickening. His face was contorted in pain and fear, teeth grit and thick tears rolling down his cheeks. His frame shivering and convulsing, twitching as if he sought to protect himself from something.

Bridge's eyes narrowed, and he rose quickly, cursing as he headed over to the cabinet.

With shivering hands (the look on Caleb's face had frightened him that much), he filled up a syringe, taking several deep breaths to steady himself before he injected Caleb with a different substance.

Caleb's uninjured eye shot open after a moment, but there wasn't a chance he was actually aware of his surroundings, at least not at first. His gaze was glassy, but his breath slowed down and relaxed. His brow furrowed slightly as he saw Bridge before his eye fluttered back shut.

"Yes, Quinn, you're still here." There was a hint of worry in Bridge's voice that managed to alarm Caleb enough to snap him back to consciousness. "What the Hell just happened with you?"

Shakily, Caleb tried to push himself up, giving a small howl as he found that his left arm was definitely broken, and his right wrist at least sprained. So he slumped down face first into the pillow. "Don't think there's much use in tryin' to explain it..."

"I reckon you had a nightmare, but, damn, I never seen anyone look like that. I'll be honest, Quinn. You scared me there."

"Did I? Good," Caleb rumbled, and fell silent as Bridge turned away. Only for a moment. Then with a rattling, ragged breath; he spoke. " _Nightmare_ 's the wrong word. I've had nightmares. But this shite?" He shook his head the best he could.

"So you're not explaining it 'cause you can't?"

Caleb nodded. "Can't... maybe won't... tryin' to get the images out o' me head." His gaze wandered through the cabin. "How long ya had me out?"

"Couple of hours. Owen saw to your wounds."

Caleb squirmed a little, and sighed. "Yer gonna rip them open again first chance, ain't ya?"

"No. They want you alive and decently well. To kill you, of course, but still." Bridge drummed his fingers on the table in thought before he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you know anyone by the name of Lynwood, Quinn?"

The response was a short, cooing groan. "No. Who's that?"

"The guy who set us up on you. Gonna meet him in a few days an' hand you over. That's the plan at least."

"It's a bullshit plan."

Bridge snorted curtly. "That's what Owen's saying."

Caleb paused, looking around again. "Where's the bastard, anyway?"

"Rode off to Glenvale, looking for Lynwood. And if he can't find the man, he'll find us a new plan."


	9. Chapter 9

"An' now ye tell me why ye been holin' yerself up in here since y'all came back," Josie announced unceremoniously as she shuffled into Caleb's room, closing the door behind her.

Finley, who was sitting hunched over the table, playing cards with himself, looked up miserably. "Just wanted some time to think, ma'am. How's Mr. Burke?"

"Doc's got the bullet out, an' Seán's keepin' him company now. He'll be right as rain."

Finley nodded curtly, his mind obviously somewhere else.

"Yer worried 'bout Quinn, ain't ye?"

"Of course," Finley went on the defensive. "But we all are... right?"

Josie sat down on the bed, straightened her skirt and looked at the boy quietly. Finley simply continued playing cards, as far as staring at them blankly could be considered that. Then, finally, he frowned and put the deck down.

"He'll die, won't he?" he asked quietly.

"I hope not." Josie sighed. "This's a rat-shit situation he's in, that's fer certain."

"What d'ya think they'll do to him?"

"Bad things. Bridge's boys've been braggin' to me girls 'bout some stuff, the headache they'll be having when they wake sometime tomorrow's the least I can do in return." Josie crossed her arms. "What we know is that Bridge gots most o' his ol' gang back, an' then some of the Leroys and the Deniaud boys. Owen Maddox seems to be 'round, too."

"So Mr. Quinn's as good as dead..."

With a determined shake of her head, Josie rose and stepped behind Finley, laying her hands on his shoulders. "Bridge will put Quinn through Hell, no doubt 'bout it, but..." She sighed. "Look, I've known Caleb Quinn since we were children, an' I know Van der Bruggen since he first showed up 'round these parts. He's a stubborn ol' arse, but he's not beyond reason. As is Quinn. An' they're both incredibly intelligent in their own ways. But that Bridge went after Quinn 'cause someone's payin' him fer it; that's what worries me."

Finley chewed his lips, staring down at the cards. "It's my fault, innit?"

"Why'd ye say that?"

"Had I not been there an' asked for stories, then..."

"Bullshit." Josie waved him off. "They'd been talkin' 'bout somethin' else an' would've been just as distracted."

"But they would've had a better chance..."

"Oh, cut it out, lad."

"No. If not for me, they all wouldn't a been distracted like that, an'..."

Josie gently slapped his shoulder. "Now listen here, Finley O'Connor. Yer shuttin' yer gap with that, an yer shuttin' it well. It's not yer fault, so stop sayin' it."

"Sorry, ma'am."

Letting go of the boy, Josie shook her head. "I'm sure Quinn would appreciate the concern. He'd make a scene 'bout it bein' ridiculous, but he'd appreciate it. Ye knows him."

"I guess..." Finley began worrying his cuffs. "Miss Josie? So d'ya think Mr. Quinn will be alright or not?"

It took an uncomfortably long moment for Josie to answer. "I don't know. He's been in some rotten sticky situations before, but this..." She sighed heavily. "I'll be honest with ye, lad. Best we can hope fer is a miracle."

Finley hung his head again, slowly and carefully pocketing his cards. "Ya believe in miracles?"

Josie smirked. "We're still talkin' Caleb Quinn here. He just got kicked outta Hell; I'd say that makes a miracle pretty possible."

Finley looked at her, thinking, and got up. "I'll go for a walk. Clear me head."

"That's a good idea. An' Finn?"

"Mhnn?"

"It's not yer fault an' no one's blamin' ye."

With a curt, sad nod Finley left. And Josie hoped he knew she wasn't just saying things to calm his nerves.

—

Not too far from the saloon Seán wandered the streets, trying to clear his head just the same. Reluctantly, though; as the Doc had pretty much kicked him out over how fussy he had gotten over Tommy.

So now he was worried and tetchy. Hands buried in his jacket's pockets he stalked through the streets, pretty much out to walk around the entire of Glenvale at least once.

"Mr. O'Brian?" someone called.

Seán looked up and around, taking longer than he'd have liked to spot the speaker. Over on the post office's porch stood a mousy gentleman, his hands folded like he was reading the mass at church. Though there was something about him that made Seán doubt the crosses in that church were hanging the right side up.

Seán twitched slightly, shifting his weight to be able to draw his gun should the need arise.

"Nigel Hodgeson, lawyer," the man introduced himself, walking over and almost immediately nudging Seán into an alley. "Is it true what they are saying about Mr. Quinn?"

Seán grimaced. "Depends which rumor yer talkin' 'bout."

"That he has been abducted by a band of ruthless outlaws."

"Bad news spreads fast, don't it?" Seán groaned. "Why d'ya care?"

"Recently a client of mine requested I contact Mr. Quinn due to his outstanding abilities when it comes to finding people."

"Quinn's not a bounty hunter anymore. None o' us are." Seán grinned. "Guess good news don't spread that fast then."

Hodgeson smiled. "Oh, I should have elaborated. My client employed Mr. Quinn's service to find a missing person. An old friend of my client he has lost contact with, to be precise."

Seán cocked his head. "Wait, are ya talkin' 'bout this... whats-his-face... Kit Wallace or somethin'? Yeah, Quinn told us 'bout that. 'Twas the reason the mayor sent Quinn out to check them telegraph poles."

"So, you have found Mr. Wallace? Is that what you're saying?"

Seán spat at the ground. "Naw. Quinn had sent a message asking a friend 'bout this Wallace guy, an' some wanker snatched the message an' nearly killed Quinn. An' when the mayor heard someone's fuckin' with the telegraph system..."

"Oh, I see." Mr. Hodgeson looked disappointed. "That sounds positively terrible. Do you have an idea who could have done such a thing?"

"Naw." Seán quirked a brow, searching the lawyer's face. A little voice in his head screamed at him to just shut the Hell up. "Why yer even askin' me?"

"My client requested that I forward this job to any of Mr. Quinn's 'old gang'; thus, someone like you, should Mr. Quinn not return to Glenvale alive."

"Listen here, mate," Seán barked. "We're gettin' Quinn back from those fuckers, and he'll find yer stupid Mr. Wallace. Don't ya dare talk 'bout Caleb Quinn as if he's six feet under."

Mr. Hodgeson stepped back, raising his hands defensively. "Of course, of course. When that happens, could you forward a message to Mr. Quinn?"

Seán growled lightly, took a deep breath and straightened his posture. "Oh, fine."

"My client will travel to New Hamelin soon, due to unforeseen circumstances. Please ask Mr. Quinn to come to this address as soon as he can. And, given the circumstances, please also forward our best wishes for a quick and full recovery to Mr. Quinn."

Hodgeson produced a small card and held it out to Seán, who snatched it away, squinting at the curly writing on it.

"I'll let him know." Seán murmured, pocketing the card.

"Farewell then, Mr. O'Brian."

The lawyer tipped his hat, turned and walked off towards the hotel, leaving Seán to himself again.

Seán shook his head and began walking in the opposite direction. This was all a bit much for a day. Sure, he had had worse, but that didn't help it at all. He scratched his head in thought and tried to get his mind back on track, not paying attention to anything around him as he wandered through the dimly lit paths between the houses. Which, as these things sometimes do, proved fatal, as someone grabbed him from behind, a hand closing over his mouth. Seán struggled, kicking, but held dreadfully still when he felt the same person holding him bring the cold muzzle of a gun to his back.

"Y'know, O'Brian, for someone they nicknamed 'All Ears,' you're not very attentive at times."

Seán recognized the voice. Owen Maddox.

"Though, I know it's more o' a bad joke on your behalf, but still," Maddox continued. "Listen, I didn't come here to fight. Not necessarily. I need to talk to you 'bout Quinn."

Seán grunted, hand lowering to his gun for a moment, before he thought better of it. He wasn't a bad shot, but Maddox was better, and definitely had several advantages at the moment. So he just nodded.

Maddox let go of Seán, and Seán stumbled forward, turning around into a defensive stance, just in case Maddox shot after all.

"Is he alright?" Seán made a sour face when he heard which of the many questions he had managed to weasel out of his mouth first.

Maddox nodded, signaling Seán to keep his voice low. "He's definitely worse for wear, but he's alive. Nothin' your Doc Yeung can't patch back together, for all I've heard. If Quinn gets back here with a heartbeat, that is."

"Is that a threat or a bloody call for help?" Seán let out a small growl.

"It all depends on how you answer my question." Maddox stopped, listening at the sounds of the nightly town with a suspicious grimace. As did Seán, wondering what it was that made the other man prick his ears.

"If ya don't mean harm an' just gots a question, ya could've jus' come to the saloon," Seán responded, with much more bravado than he felt.

Maddox smirked. "I have some sense of self-preservation, O'Brian."

Seán nodded curtly.

"Now," Maddox continued. "I'm looking for someone. Tall, gaunt, bald, with an absurdly thin and narrow nose, bushy mutton chops. Ring a bell?"

Seán cocked his head. "No. Where's Quinn?"

With a scrutinizing glance Maddox searched the other's face, scrunching up his nose.

"Why do you th-..." the rest died on Maddox' tongue as someone knocked him out cold from behind.

—

Miles and miles away, Caleb stirred awake and felt... weird. He couldn't find a word for it, try as he may. He did wonder if it was the aftermath of the adrenaline rush he had been on or the morphine Bridge had mercifully administered. He groaned heavily and moved the arm that wasn't broken carefully to push himself up on his elbow and get a better view.

It was pitch-black in the cabin itself, the campfire burning outside casting an uneven light into the room. He squinted, his eyes burning, and slowly sat up.

And stopped.

He was dizzy and barely in control of his limbs, but he felt... fine. He stretched the other arm without problem, and after a quick self-inspection found that the only pain he felt came from his bad leg and his jaw. But that was normal.

He got up onto unsteady legs, hobbling carefully over to the window by the door and hazarding a look outside. The campfire was burning, but not one of Bridge's men was in sight. This couldn't be right. They wouldn't just leave him here like that.

Brows knitted darkly he moved silently around the cabin, trying to find his gear again. Bridge had ordered his boys to bring it here, right? Caleb wondered where it could be. But the shelves were empty, as was the box at the foot of the bed.

This _couldn't_ be right.

He stopped in front of the cabinet, staring at the box Maddox had gotten the means to knock Caleb out with from. The box was there, the syringe was there, but... Caleb was certain Bridge had woken him up with an antidote to whatever was in the bottle in the box. He closed his eyes, and bared his teeth in anger as he opened them again. As if it was mocking him, a second bottle stood in the cabinet.

And he realized he was dreaming. Anger bubbled up inside him, fury about this _something_ mocking him. But deep inside his core, he was scared. He knew he was dreaming, and he felt as if he knew what would come now. And he didn't want to go through it again. Then he stopped. No, this was different, actually.

Since Tommy and Seán had found him, since he was half-way back on his feet, he had barely had a night without a nightmare. The worst ones, full of pain and misery beyond his comprehension inflicted on him, rattled him to his core; the not so bad ones, those filled with all these outlandish people, confused him. But each of them felt like a memory, buried deep inside him, having holed itself up, afraid to come into the light.

But this one was different. He had never found himself in a dream like this. One that took place wherever he had fallen asleep, trying to create a mockery of the place. Yet he knew it'd end, all the same. And he was scared. He wanted to run and to fight at the same time; he felt sick, felt like screaming, felt like crying.

He felt frozen in place, his eyes wandering around the cabin, waiting for the inevitable.

The shadows danced and changed, the wooden walls of the cabin warping and growing darker.

Something spoke to him in the voices of nearly everyone he knew. Insulted him for his disobedience, his failure. It mocked him for how he let his anger drive him, mocked him for how his thirst for revenge had made him forget what was good for him. How it made him fail. And it made promises. If Caleb would just do as he was told, would forge his anger into a tool, a weapon, and never fail again, he'd be fine. He'd have something to keep him going. A goal, a purpose.

And Caleb laughed. A choked, bitter laugh. He sank to his knees, holding his head.

He thought of how everyone had moved on, while he still had nothing to work towards. How all he had done was cause trouble for those he called his friends. If he'd go away again, if he'd go back to... wherever... he'd be fine. They'd be fine.

Every fiber of his being wanted to agree, wanted to take whatever punishment was to come, wanted this to be over, so he could go back to his _work_.

Every fiber but one.

A spark. An odd little spark that felt new. One that ignited a fire inside Caleb, and it burned bright. Burned brighter than anger; than fear; than the thirst for revenge. Something Caleb couldn't name. But the flames fueled something else:

Spite.

And he suddenly knew these dark thoughts weren't his. Suddenly, he knew the past few weeks, from his boys finding him more dead than alive to Bridge mercifully giving him morphine, were real, as were these dreams. Something had happened in these two years, something Caleb couldn't put into words. Maybe no one could put it into words.

But he'd find out what happened.

And he'd find out who got Van Laren and Bridge on his arse, what the deal with this Wallace was, and he'd sure as Hell would kick that fuckin' sky-spider in the balls, insofar it had some at least.

He rose to his feet, jutted his lower lip forward... and smiled.

The shadows twitched to a stop. As if they were... surprised. Confused even.

Caleb took a step towards the darkest corner. The shadows edged away.

"What?" He grinned. "I believe it was emotions ya devour? Guess this ain't a taste to yer likin' then." The grin grew broader and more maniacally, and Caleb spread his arms. "Ya want me, bastard? Come an' get me. An' pray I don't find ya first."

A terrible roar filled Caleb's ears, and the cabin around him exploded into innumerable, glittering shards.

And Caleb woke, staring blearily up at Bridge, who was leaning over him with a worried expression that still surprised Caleb to see on the face of someone who'd brought him here to be tortured and handed over to be killed. 

"My, ain't ya an unpleasant sight to wake up to," Caleb grunted.

Bridge harrumphed, albeit with an amused undertone. "Feeling's mutual."

"Yer worried for me, Bridge," Caleb singsonged drowsily.

Bridge sat down on the side of the bed. "If you'd seen your face you'd be worried too."

Caleb looked at the other man, gently shaking his head. "Ya were all bloodthirst and insults at the farm, ya left me to yer men to beat me into a fuckin' pulp, and now yer worried."

"Things happened. And I had some hours to think about some of them, Quinn."

"Is it what Maddox said?"

"That's one of the things. And then there are things you did that... Things I can't hate you for. Like the one in New Hamelin 'bout six years ago."

"When someone poisoned ya."

"You could have left me to die painfully, or brought me in all too easily. But instead you dragged my sorry arse to the next boarding house and nursed me back to health."

"Told ya Walters wasn't the only one I let go... But eh, with you that absolutely _was_ 'cause it'd have been _too_ easy to bring ya in." Caleb waved his hand dismissively, then winced at the stinging pain this resulted in.

Bridge snorted a curt laugh. " _Sure_ , if you say so."

"I mean, I did bring ya in not even a year later." Caleb fell quiet, looking down at the floor in thought. "Did ya ever figure who did that to ya?" he asked after a moment. 

"No. But you're not the only enemy I made in life. An odd kind of enemy, though."

"Feeling's mutual." Caleb grinned weakly, and Bridge nodded.

"Heh," Caleb mused, "wasn't that whole poisoning thing just before I dragged Booker through town for impersonatin' me?"

"Dunno if you're implying it might have been Booker who poisoned me, but, yes. Fairly certain it was. Ha. For all I know he was still bitter 'bout that by the time you and your boys stormed Hellshire." Bridge chuckled a little.

"About the arrest or 'bout the ride scraping his arse off?"

And Bridge actually laughed. "I did tell him the impersonation jig was a bad idea." He sighed softly.

It was Caleb who picked up the conversation again.

"Can I ask ya something?"

"Depends on what it is."

"What is 'tween ya and Maddox? What I just said, ya were all out to break me, an' then he comes in, gives ya an earful an' now look at ya."

Bridge glared briefly, only to look away thoughtfully. "It's hard to explain... It's... complicated."

"Ya shouldn't use that word, Bridge. Gives a man like me all the wrong ideas."

"Man like...?" Bridge quirked a brow and shook his head. And grinned briefly. "Guess I do have to thank you for dragging me off to Hellshire in the end after all. Without that, I'd never have known..."

Caleb looked at Bridge, waiting for a few more words to that sentence, but they never came. "Ya could show yer gratitude by lettin' me go, y'know."

"Nice try, Quinn. But you _did_ drag me to Hellshire, and you saw to half a dozen of my men hanging. The good things you've done don't outweigh how much misery you caused us." Bridge pressed his lips together in thought, staring ahead. "You want the truth?" he shuffled around, laying down next to Caleb, who raised a brow at that. "Truth is, I _am_ waiting for Owen to come back. What happens with you depends on what he finds."

"Yer not trusting yer Mr. Lynwood anymore?"

"Never did, but..." Bridge fell silent, running a hand over his face. "You should see the sum Lynwood is offering. On top of clearing our names. Since the mess in Clementsburg..."

"What did ya _do_?"

Bridge put on a mask of oblivious innocence. "Not important... Anyway," he cleared his throat. "It was a godsend. The revenge aspect's a bonus, of course. We are free to do as we please, as long as you are alive and capable of recognizing what is going on around you."

"So no damage to me hearin', thinkin', no plugging me eyes out..."

Bridge cringed noticeably. "Yes."

Caleb took a deep breath, or tried to at least, as it resulted into a heavy cough and a wheeze, and him holding his chest in pain.

"We really put you through the wringer," Bridge noted.

"That ya did. Can't actually blame ya, though. But I told ya as much."

"Yes."

"Can't blame ya for tryin' to get the means for a new life either."

Hearing that, Bridge propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Caleb. "That's surprising."

"No." Caleb shook his head. "This whole fuckin' mess is only happenin' 'cause someone offered me a hefty sum to find someone."

"You're back to bounty hunting then?"

"No. 'Tis a missing person thing. And it's so bloody frustrating." With an odd look Caleb turned his head towards Bridge. "Ya don't happen to know a certain Christopher Wallace? Kit Wallace? From Boston?"

"You must be a little desperate if you ask _me_ such a question in this situation."

"Hey, once Maddox is back an' I'm free to go, I'm back to findin' that guy. So I'm takin' all the chances I can get."

"You are quite convinced this will end in your favor."

"Luck of the Irish, Bridge." Caleb grinned. "So, do ya know him?"

"No. Doesn't ring a bell at all."

"'Twas worth the try." A stray thought crossed Caleb's mind. "What about Nigel Hodgeson?"

Bridge scrunched up his nose, staring at Caleb in disbelief. "The lawyer? Mousy little man with a collar as stiff as a corpse?"

Caleb nodded.

"Oh, that one I know, Quinn. Slimy little creep. What the hell is your business with him?"

"He's the one I'm tryin' to find this Wallace for. Well, a client of his is."

"Quinn," Bridge said somberly. "You _do_ know that Nigel Hodgeson's the family lawyer of Henry Bayshore?"

—

Maddox awoke with a groan, assessing the situation he was in. And grimaced, bemused, at the blurry faces looking down at him. "Heh, I'd say not this shit again, but this' the first time I find myself tied to a bed." He shook his head to get the fog out, and squinted, stopping quite surprised as he focused on Finley. "Ah, fuck. Didn't know Quinn had a kid."

"He's not Quinn's kid," Seán said dryly, feeling someone had to.

"You sure? 'S got the same eyes an' nose." Maddox groaned, head slumping back into the pillows. "You gonna try an' trade me for Quinn?"

"That's one option," Seán answered, pulling up a chair and sitting down astride. "The other is ya tell us where he is an' we don't mangle ya too badly."

Maddox grinned, tugging and testing on his bounds. "You wanna get him out? You know that'd be suicide, O'Brian."

"Yer not givin' us a lot o' choices. He's our friend."

With a contemplating and understanding look, Maddox examined the two men, and ultimately sighed. "Y'know, O'Brian, I came here to, well, provide you with another choice. If you wanna put it like that."

"Forget 'bout Quinn an' be on our merry way?" Seán snarled. "He's. Our. Friend."

"I told you, I'm looking for someone."

"An' I told ya I don't know anyone that description fits. So by yer own words yer gonna let Quinn die."

One could almost see the anger dripping from Seán's voice. Maddox took a careful breath.

"Mind if I explain myself?" he said. "I am trying to figure out if you bastards are setting us up, or if something's even more amiss." Maddox shook his head as no one interrupted him upon that. "Not too long ago a man approached Bridge over in New Hamelin. Offered more money for Quinn than it'd cost to buy his soul back from the Devil."

"An' ya agreed," Seán growled.

"We've fallen a bit on hard times..."

"The thing in Clementsburg, I guess?"

Maddox rolled his eyes. "Yes. I told Bridge that it... Forget it. Anyway. Deal was we're free to do with Quinn as we please as long as he's alive and conscious when they'd come to get him. We were all blinded by the promises. But now..."

"Now ya smell a rat," Finley noted.

"Yes. Especially when the feller returned a few days ago, telling us where we could find Quinn and get a drop on 'im. An' we were too bloody thick to ask how he'd know that. Told you, we were blinded by the promises of freedom and revenge."

"We're the last ones to blame ya, y'know," Seán murmured. "So yer here to make amends?"

Maddox looked at him and nodded. "Yes. Wanted to see what I can find about that guy." He snorted bitterly. "Once I got suspicious 'bout that precious offer of his, I started to wonder if this was a trap set by Quinn."

"I'd ask if ya think Quinn would put himself in such danger t' get the drop on ya," Seán began, and grimaced, "But he absolutely would."

"That's the issue. If Quinn wasn't as crazy as he is..."

"At least ya got 'round 'bout it not being so before he's dead." Seán drummed his fingers on the back of the seat. "So. Clear words, Maddox. What d'ya want?"

Smacking his lips briefly, Maddox looked between Seán and Finley again. "I need to know who my... who _our_ contact is."

"Why did ya correct yerself there?" Finley asked. Maddox stared at him.

"What?"

"Ya corrected yerself from 'my contact' to 'our,' an' it don't sound as if that's 'cause you an' Mr. Van der Bruggen are working together."

Maddox continued staring. "Nothing..." seeing the expression on the others' faces, he frowned. "Alright, there's more to this story."

"Surprise of surprises," Seán grumbled, turning away.

"Between that gaunt guy I told O'Brian about contacting Bridge and making that offer and him telling us where to find Quinn, some odd feller... some other odd feller... paid me a visit. Want to laugh? He told me we ought to get the hell away from where we were and that something was wrong, and that we shouldn't trust the gaunt bastard. Didn't say why though."

"So, ya get this too-good-to-be-true offer, realize something's fishy 'bout it, and then someone else pops up, tells ya that yeah, something's wrong with that shite, so ya had all means to know..."

"Again. I told you, I thought it was Quinn's trap," Maddox cut Seán off. "It would have made sense for this other guy and this Lynwood to've been sent by Quinn. Confuse us, sow discord, and tie up some loose ends by getting us back into prison or to the gallows."

"Lynwood?" Finley's head shot up in alarm and anger. "Wait. D'ye mean Giles Lynwood?"

Seán and Maddox looked at the boy in surprise.

"That's his name, yes," Maddox said. "So ya know him?"

"Tall, bald, gaunt... thin nose, thick mutton chops? Bit like a skinned rat?"

"That's him alright."

Finley growled darkly, drawing especially Seán's attention at how uncharacteristic this was for the boy. "Yeah, I knows him. He's a fuckin' Pinkerton."


	10. Chapter 10

New Hamelin was a prospering town by the river, roughly a day's ride away from Glenvale. What the town didn't gain through the river and the railroad it gained through the relative proximity to Glenvale and the Hellshire prison's infamy. It was good business.

Unfortunately this included, as these things often do, shady business as well.

"Do I look like I'm kiddin'?" The man leaning against the alley's wall—his signature in the ledger of one of the town's hotels listed him as a Mr. Olivier—looked grimly at his companion sitting on a crate across from him.

"No," the other man said, rubbing his face with a groan, "The fuckin' Pinks. I feel genuinely sorry for Quinn. Even he don't deserve that."

"Eh, debatable."

The other man glowered. "Listen here, ya little rat, I know exactly yer only sharing this information 'cause we're payin' ya more than those bastards did."

"You hurt me, Kelly," 'Olivier' grinned triumphantly, "I am simply doin' the right thing. But the fact that you _are_ payin' me more than them... isn't that reason enough to trust my words? So, now that you got the info you wanted, you goin' in for the save?"

"I gotta. 'S much as it pains me. But we need Quinn for this." Kelly got up and pulled a thick envelope from under his coat. "Here."

'Olivier' gleefully took the envelope, immediately beginning to count the money therein. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"An' ya really don't know who the people what got Quinn are?"

With a dramatic shrug, 'Olivier' pocketed the envelope. "Some ten-a-penny gang of outlaws. They got the drop on Quinn due to Lynwood's information, but they're nothin' special-" Before he could react, Kelly had grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Listen here. Yer a rat an' a snake, Booker. If ya lied 'bout this, if I find ya _are_ workin' with those wankers, ya will need all o' that money to make sure I'll never find yer sorry arse." Kelly let go of him, and with a strained cough, 'Olivier'-Booker-got back to steady feet.

"Oh, I don't think it'll come to that." Booker patted his pocket with a grin. "Said it yourself: You're payin' me more than the Pinkertons did."

—

"Finn's asleep now," Miss Josie shuffled back into the room, closing the door behind her.

Seán nodded quietly. The boy had fallen dreadfully quiet after a burst of anger over this Agent Lynwood, and after a while Seán had gone and called Miss Josie in to help.

"Never seen him like that," Seán said, wringing his hands.

"'Tis all a bit too much fer the boy," Josie said, sitting down on the bed, which earned her a suspicious brow from Maddox. She glared and slapped him on the chest. "At least we know just how massively ye fucked this one up."

"Duly noted," Maddox coughed, tugging on his bounds. "Say, you wouldn't mind untyin' me? I believe I'm on your side now."

"Eh, we'll see 'bout that," Seán grunted, leaning on his chair. "How the Hell did ya not know yer was dealin' with them fuckin' Pinks?"

"Told you, we were too focused on the money an' all that to look into things. And do you expect that brood to have the common courtesy to introduce themselves proper in situations like that?"

"I don't expect 'em to have any common courtesy at all," Seán answered bluntly. "Now, the night's still young; fill us in."

Maddox groaned softly. "Alright. We've made camp over in Copperwood Grove. In three days we're meant to meet Lynwood down in the old logging camp. At nightfall." Maddox rolled his eyes. "It sounded like a good idea at the time. Plenty o' cover for us if things go funny..."

"An' now ya know it's just as much cover for 'n ambush."

With a wry grin Maddox looked at Seán. "Yeah." He sighed forlornly. "Want to hear the punchline? I had a bad feeling after the thing in Clementsburg. We were meant to lie low."

"Ya did for a while."

"We did." Maddox nodded. "But then this Lynwood found Bridge. And Bridge... Bridge then said he had a plan now. Should have known better."

"You or him?" Seán asked.

"Yes." Maddox clicked his tongue.

"Ye really jumped face first into the pigsty there." Josie leaned over to untie Maddox, who sat up, rubbing his wrists. "Tell ye what, ye go an' get Quinn back here, take Bridge, and ye bugger off while ye still can."

Maddox sighed. "Easier said than done, Miss Josie. This Lynwood knew we were in Copperwood. If he found us there..." he shook his head.

"Could have anyone told 'im?" Seán wondered.

"Possible. But..." once again Maddox shook his head. "This entire thing is so convoluted."

A murmur of agreement filled the room.

"Who d'ya think _is_ behind this?" Seán finally asked the question on everyone's mind. "I mean, if this were just them authorities goin' after the Van der Bruggen gang, why get Quinn involved like this? An' the only one I can name what would hire them Pinks to kill these two birds with one stone like that... well, Bayshore's dead." He paused. "Isn't he?"

—

Elsewhere, Caleb and Bridge were, unwittingly of course, having the exact same exchange.

"It's the whole thing with Blayne an' the telegraph that doesn't make any goddamn sense." Caleb rubbed his temples between thumb and index finger.

" _Are_ you sure Blayne can't be in on it?"

"Absolutely. There's few people in this world I'd vouch for, Bridge, an' Emmett Blayne's one of 'em." Caleb leaned back in the pillows. "Alright, once more chronologically, what do we know: Me boys find me by the road after I been missin' for two years. I'm out cold for three days after that. Three days, an' then I'm confined to me room for two weeks. One day after I go out again, Bayshore's lawyer..."

"Who might not be working for Bayshore at all," Bridge reminded him.

"Alright, I give him that. So this Hodgeson comes up to me, introduces me to Mr. Harper, an' I'm tasked with finding Mr. Wallace. I go an' send a message to Blayne in New York, which never actually reaches him."

"A week later you head to Omaha and run into Blayne. I'll give you that, it's impossible for anyone to have planned which route you'd take to that boarding house."

"That's what I'm sayin', Bridge. Then the shit with Van Laren happens, an' Doc keeps me in me room for another week."

"And now you're here."

"'Cause the mayor got nervous 'bout the telegraph an' sends me out."

Bride raised a brow. "You think the mayor's in on it?"

"Naw. His worries got other reasons, but I bet someone put that bee in his bonnet to send me out here."

Now Bridge harrumphed. "That's a given. Lynwood likely has a man in Glenvale." He rubbed his chin in thought, nestling back against the bed's headboard. "The man in the black poncho?" Then he shook his head. "Wouldn't make much sense, would it? If whoever is behind this wants to get their hands on all of us, why send someone who..."

He was interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. He rose from the bed, calling out to whoever was knocking. The next moment a young man Caleb hadn't seen before opened the door, looking horribly out of breath and devastated.

"Boss, we found Henriksen. Ya won't like this. Same thing like with Ellis an' the others."

Bridge cursed loudly and stormed out after the other man, leaving Caleb to wonder what the Hell that meant. It didn't take long for the sounds from outside to swell up, and curiosity got the better of Caleb. Slowly he moved off the bed, hobbling and swaying towards the door and leaning weakly against the frame.

Just a few feet away a campfire was burning. Bridge and a small group of his men gathered around a figure sitting on the ground. By the looks of it that guy was... what was the word again?... catatonic, assuming that word also meant scared-out-of-his-fucking-wits.

"Where did you find him?" Bridge asked, while the guy—Henriksen, wasn't it?—was being carried away to one of the tents.

"Over by the burned clearin'," the guy who had come calling answered, "Didn't recognize us at first."

Again Bridge cursed, before shaking his head. "See what you can do for him. We got the others back to their feet before; we can do it again." He turned to head back to his cabin. "And tell everyone to stay the Hell away from that goddamn lake."

Caleb watched the men for a while, until Bridge roughly pulled him away by his arm.

"You are not a guest here, Quinn, in case you forgot that," Bridge snarled, but the way the color had drained from his face betrayed his outward anger.

"I'm still here, ain't I?" Caleb countered, staggering back to the bed. "Ya look like ya saw a bloody ghost."

Bridge took a deep breath and heavily sat down next to Caleb."It's nothing important."

"Yer almost as bad a liar as Seán. An' yer both fuckin' conmen."

"O'Brian is a conman?"

Caleb quirked a brow. "Well, if he convinced ya he ain't, he's prob'ly not that bad." The two actually shared a chuckle, before Caleb laid back on the bed. "So, what is it? Yer man looked horrible, an' I reckon that whatever that Lynwood gots coming for us will need every man in yer gang to fight off."

Bridge sat still, looking at his folded hands for a while, before laying back with an annoyed groan. "Alright then, talkin' turkey: Since we've made camp here... sometimes the men that go out hunting or scouting just don't return. At first we thought they died in the wilderness; this is Copperwood Grove after all, but then..." Bridge rubbed his hands over his face. "This will sound crazy. We found them days later, all looking like Henriksen does now. Callaghan has likened them to empty shells, and, goddamnit, it fits."

"I saw that." Caleb turned his head to look at Bridge. "Ya mentioned a lake. Ya mean Devil's Blue?"

With a long sigh Bridge nodded. "I am familiar with the stories 'bout that lake. And, to tell the truth, I'm starting to believe them."

'Devil's Blue' was a lake deep in the woods of Copperwood Grove. It's said to spring from somewhere around Sorrow Creek several miles away, an underground river carrying the area's curse this far into the woods. Whether or not one believed the folktales, no one could deny that strange things happened around the lake. Bridge's men going missing was just one of them.

"And the more happens," Bridge continued, "the more I'm glad we didn't go into the caves by the lake."

"Good thinking there. Even though just considering it wasn't one of yer greatest moments."

Bridge hummed, displeased, locking his arms behind his head. "You know what makes the least sense here?" He sat up, nodding at Caleb. "They all had the same wounds you have. The circular ones below the ribcage, I mean."

Caleb's eyes grew wide and he sat up. A little too fast, as he immediately fell back with a pained cry, laying there gasping for air for a moment.

"What the Hell was that?" Bridge inquired, face scrunched up, part in worry and part in utter confusion.

"Oh, I could tell ya a story 'bout that, Bridge, but I doubt ya'd believe me."

"Try me."

"No. 'Cause, ya see, I don't really believe it meself."

—

Miss Josie was making her usual round through the saloon again.

Superfluous to note that the whole situation had left a sour taste in her mouth, especially since every plan they had been able to come up with seemed doomed to fail. That in itself was bad enough, but there was this gnawing feeling that they were missing just one piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, it was shaping up to be one massive piece.

"Hey." Josie turned around at the call, letting out a tense sigh as she saw Charlie waving her over and out onto the porch.

"Anything new?" She asked once they were standing remotely alone.

Charlie bit his lips. "New, yes, but not good. Heard what happened with Quinn."

"Bad news spreads fast, as they say..."

Charlie nodded. "I don't have much t' help. The man in the black poncho... Lost him in New Hamelin."

"An' no idea who he is?"

"No. But... I think he's trailin' someone."

"Any idea who that might be?"

"No, sorry."

"Don't be sorry, ye did yer best."

"I'll keep me eye open, promise."

"Miss Josie? Mr... Mulligan, right?" someone called and Josie and Charlie turned. Miss Catherine came up the path, looking a little disheveled. Charlie nodded both a greeting and an affirmation.

"Is it true what people say about Mr. Quinn?"

"Depends on what ya heard, miss," Charlie said, leaning against the porch's railing as Miss Catherine joined them. "Ya be Miss Catherine? Quinn's been talkin' 'bout ya."

Miss Catherine blushed lightly. "Well, I hope."

"I'd say so. By the sound of it he dunno what to make of ya, but that's not a bad thing."

Next to Charlie, Miss Josie smiled wistfully, before the smile fell quickly. "Yer here 'cause of...?"

"I heard he got abducted by vengeful outlaws."

"Ye heard that right, unfortunately." Miss Josie sighed, but snorted a laugh as Miss Catherine's reaction to that was to curse profoundly under her breath. Charlie, meanwhile, looked surprised.

"Don't mind me sayin' this, miss, but I didn't take a fine lady like yerself to have a mouth like that," he muttered.

Miss Catherine smiled a little lopsided. "I'm no 'fine lady', Mr. Mulligan. My mother was a bank teller. Now, Mrs. Watkins, she's a proper 'fine lady', and I know she has high hopes for me in that regard. Which..." she sighed, "can be a little tiring." Miss Catherine took a deep breath. "So, Mr. Quinn is..."

"Alive," Josie said with a soft smile. "But, I won't mince me words, he's in some rat-shit situation."

"Is there anything I can do? I have finished work for the day, and Mrs. Watkins says it's alright if I come over, given the situation."

Josie hummed in thought and exchanged a knowing glance with Charlie, before looking back at the other woman. "I think the best ye can do is to look after Finley if ye got the time. Poor lad's all rattled by what's goin' on."

Miss Catherine nodded. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs in the room next to Quinn's."

Another nod. "Should I go there now?"

"Might be good. If ye need something to wile away yer time, lass, there's books an' a knitting basket."

A third nod, and Miss Catherine ascended the backstairs.

"She's an odd one, ain't she?" Charlie mused after a moment.

"Aye. Fits right into Glenvale." Josie smiled, gazing over the nightly town. "But seriously. Ye got any idea what to do now?"

"I consulted me cards."

"And?"

"Help's to come from unexpected corners, that's all I can say."

"Well, we gots Owen Maddox upstairs."

Charlie's brows ratcheted into his hairline. "Do ya now?"

"He came by on his own. Well, he tried to ambush Seán, an' Finley knocked him out."

Charlie simply nodded. "I heard he's ridin' with Bridge now, so, if he's here an' yer fine with it..."

"He says he wants to help. Seán still needs to fill me in on some things Maddox might'a said. I gots the saloon to take care of, after all."

"I know. They be upstairs?"

"Yeah. Know what? Ye go say 'Hello' an' have 'm fill ye in."

"That's what I was plannin'. Ya take care." With that, Charlie went upstairs, and Josie headed back into the saloon, but not before looking at the nightly streets again. She couldn't help it, but she felt watched again, and she didn't like that feeling at all.

—

"That... is quite a tale," Bridge concluded as he stared, quite baffled and a little disturbed, at Caleb.

"Don't I know it?" Caleb smiled a lopsided smile, picking at a cut on his arm. "But I've turned them dreams over in me head time an' time again. There's just... I think it's all, what's the word again? Bona fide memories?"

"Bona fide, yes." Bridge ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking his head. "It still sounds..."

"I know. An' I won't pretend I know what's going on. But just... all them people, all from... different times and..." Caleb carefully chewed on his lips, "not just places. I think realities. That's the most bafflin' bit. I know it should be impossible, but..." He noted how Bridge was looking at him, a gaze that shared his confusion, but Caleb could see other thoughts dancing behind the man's eyes that wanted to be put into words. "Ya got something to say?"

Bridge blinked and cleared his throat. "No. I'm still trying to digest all of this. I feel sorry for you. And you think that that's what got my men?"

"It's my best guess from what ya said." With a visible shudder, Caleb laid back. "An' lemme tell ya, Bridge, I'd not be fuckin' surprised if that bloody thing is what them local tribes be fearin' over in Sorrow Creek."

"Well, seems like people were spot on when they say the Devil made home there."

Caleb nodded. "So, what now?"

"I'll tell my men to stay away from Devil's Blue and the caves at all costs." It was hard to miss the disappointment on Bridge's face.

"What's with that face? Did ya want to challenge the Devil for yer soul?"

With a mischievous grin Bridge reclined next to Caleb. "Don't give me ideas, Quinn. No. I have been musing about the caves for a while. They want to reopen the De Witte mine come spring, for all I know. And they say the caves here run close to the mine's tunnels. Imagine if," Bridge's eyes began to shine, ''imagine a passage between the caves at Devil's Blue and the mine, with the new owner none-the-wiser. Not to mention there might be gold in the caves as well."

"It's not worth gettin' eaten by the Devil himself while yer still alive, Bridge. Ya still got a bit o' life ahead o' ya, don't waste that."

Bridge smiled sadly. " _You_ of all people tell me that? Ain't you out to get me behind bars again?"

"Don't mean I can't give ya a chance. Look... I know a lot of yer men follow ya 'cause yer promising them the means to start over. An' I'd be a bloody hypocrite if I'd say ya don't have the right to that. Look at my boys. I lost nearly everyone in the massacre an' what came after, but look where the sorry remains are now. If you an' yer men genuinely wanna start anew, it shouldn't take that much misery to get there for just a few of ya."

Caleb didn't know what to make of the look Bridge was giving him upon hearing those words, but Caleb had seen fear and resignation in the eyes of so many people that he easily recognized those, at least. But before he could ask, before he could decide whether or not to ask, Bridge spoke up.

"What about you?" he asked. "You don't seem to have anything ahead of you."

"I'm driftin'," Caleb answered after a thoughtful moment. "Right now I wanna get out of this alive, have a few choice words with this Hodgeson, an' then find this Wallace."

"Can't help you with the latter, but I think I'm willing to help with the first." Bridge drummed his fingers on the mattress. "What about your kid?"

Caleb rolled his eyes almost audibly. "Finn's not me kid. I know, I know, he looks a lot like me, an' truth be told, the little bugger grew on me, but... c'mon, ev'ryone knows it's impossible."

Teasingly, Bridge's gaze wandered to Caleb's crotch, earning him an exhausted frown.

"No, all's fine in _that_ regard," Caleb muttered.

"I guessed so, but the temptation to be an arse was too great."

Both men shared a grin, before Caleb fell thoughtful again. "No, ya know how I mean. I was in prison at the time. Sure, the warden let me have some time with a girl now an' then, as a reward for me craftsmanship, but that's it. Those girls know well how not to get knocked up. So, no, no way he's me kid." Caleb huffed a laugh. "Funny thing, though. Finley resemblin' me that much was likely what saved the kid his hide."

"Ah?"

"Yeah. 'Twasn't long after I delivered ya to Hellshire. Warden had me come over one day, an' introduced me to Finley, an' asked me to take the boy under me wing. He absolutely found it hilarious, betcha."

"How old was the kid then?"

"Thirteen, barely. An orphan from the area. He's a master pickpocket, an' I've yet to find a lock that poses a challenge to him."

"You still sound like a proud father."

Caleb smiled. "Told ya, the kid grew on me. An'... call me a sentimental ol' fool, but if there was a bloody chance, I wouldn't mind if he were me kid. But ya know me; the Lord above don't want me to be happy wi' a family an' all."

"So that's what you'd like?"

"I wouldn't mind it. I always had me thirst for revenge drivin' me an'... I feel empty since we stormed Hellshire. Even with what's goin' on now, the ol' fire's not being rekindled. And... it worries me."

Bridge nodded understandingly. "I'm not going to explain, but, I do know how you feel." He smiled softly. "Tell you what I'll do now. We all get some sleep, I'll tell my men to guard the meeting spot, and once Owen's back we'll see about the finer details."

"Ya know, it's sad how obvious this trap is, yet ya didn't notice."

With a shake of his head Bridge laid back. "In all honesty, Quinn? I appreciate you and Owen worrying, but I don't think I am biting off more than I can chew here. I mean, sure, we're dealing with someone who has been working for bloody Bayshore, but all in all, what are they going to do? I don't think they have anything up their sleeve that we can't deal with."

—

Way over in New Hamelin, Booker was strolling through the nightly streets, looking for means to spend the rather ill-gained money. Well, he was picking his poisons, as before anything else could happen, he still had another meeting to attend.

A number of newly built warehouses lined the way up to the train station, and it was easy to slip along the paths between them in the darkness. It wasn't so easy to find the right one, though, and Booker was getting frustrated by the time he spotted the little lantern with the purple glass in the distance ahead.

"You are late, Mr. Booker," the gaunt man standing by one of the wagons in the warehouse greeted him without turning around. "I assume all went as planned?"

"Sure. Kelly's gathering his men by now, I'd guess; ready to ride down to Copperwood Grove."

"Good."

Booker looked at the wagon and the few men loading boxes onto it. "So, you can expect 'round 60 men. Bridge likely sent them girls away. You got enough men to get them all? By what I saw, you'll be fuckin' outnumbered."

The gaunt man turned and smiled a thin smile. "Oh, we will certainly 'get them all'. And numbers are irrelevant, Mr. Booker."

"It's still 'bout 60 armed outlaws. They won't let you arrest them without a fight, Lynwood."

Lynwood raised a brow. "Arrest them, Mr. Booker?" He waved his hand, and one of the men showed Booker what the boxes contained. Booker took a step back in surprise.

"That's a fuckin' Gatling," he breathed.

"One of several. Oh, I believe Mr. Van der Bruggen might beg to be arrested once we're through with his men. Do you think he'll beg? You know him better than I do."

Booker was still staring at the boxes. He hadn't expected that. "Maybe..." he answered, a small part of his brain trying to tell him just how heavy the envelopes full of money he was carrying were. He ignored it with a life-long practice, and instead looked at Lynwood expectantly. "Eh, good riddance. Now, I think ya owe me something, Lynwood."

"Your payment, of course." Lynwood walked over to a few crates, the wagons starting to move out of the warehouse. Booker watched them warily, frowning after a moment.

"Y'know, I think all in all I might miss Bridge. Been through a lot, me an' him."

Lynwood stepped closer.

And smiled.

"Oh, you'll see him soon enough, Mr. Booker."

Booker's head snapped around, the question of what that was supposed to mean dying on his lips as a muffled shot rang out, hitting him square in the stomach. He staggered back, holding the wound in disbelief before he fell over, spitting blood.

Then Lynwood was over him, patting his jacket and retrieving the envelopes and Booker's weapons. "You won't be needing this, Mr. Booker. Just find a nice spot in Hell for Mr. Van der Bruggen and yourself, and stake a claim. But you can rest well knowing you've done your country a great deed. A greater one than you'll ever know."

Lynwood pulled back from Booker's fading field of vision, and by the sound of it, he threw the guns to the side before mounting the last wagon as it rattled out of the warehouse.

Booker lay there, breathing getting harder, especially with all the blood in his mouth, when hurried footsteps echoed through the empty warehouse. The last thing Booker saw was a face he had never seen before looking down at him. A man in his late thirties in a black poncho.

"You're not getting out of this one so easily; don't you dare to think so."

Booker groaned, and everything faded to black.


	11. Chapter 11

"I don't like this... Something 'bout it stinks." Caleb grunted in dismay, glaring down at the map Bridge had presented him with in the morning. Neither of them had slept well, to no one's surprise; and after Bridge had lamented how him sharing a bed with Caleb was ridiculous and definitely not part of his plan, they were now sitting together at the table, Bridge laying out what Caleb had to expect in two days' time.

And Caleb didn't like any of it, even though the part where they kill him had been thrown out by now.

"I know, I know." Bridge waved him off. "But the old logging camp provides us with plenty of cover. We have access to escape routes here, here and here." He tapped the map again.

"And ya got them scraggy hills overlooking everything here, here an' here," Caleb noted, tapping almost the exact same spots as Bridge had. Then he took a deep breath. "Bridge, ya said this Lynwood suggested the logging camp 'cause it's a big open area. An' it is. But..."

"I _know_. But there's no way Lynwood could get anyone into position near the rendezvous point without us noticing. I have my men patrol the area."

"From yer lips to God's ear," Caleb muttered, adjusting the sling his arm was in now.

"Could you kindly have a _little bit_ of faith in me?"

"I'm just sayin' the whole thing is bloody suspicious."

"I'm not denying that." Bridge drummed his fingers on the table in bitter thoughtfulness. "Owen won't let me hear the end of it already."

"That ya weren't more suspicious o' someone waltzing up to ya an' promisin' ya the blue down from the sky if ya pull somethin' like this?"

Bridge groaned. "Yes. I mean, I was suspicious of it, but you should have seen the sum. And that on top of clearing our names."

"That's the part I like the least. Ya know as well as I that shite like that needs some connections. Lowell had a hard enough time gettin' some of me boys released back in the day, and ya an' yer men have a few skeletons more in yer closets. There's gotta be a lot of political power at play here." Caleb cocked his head. "How come none of ya asked how this Lynwood can do that?"

"'Cause we were some goddamn fools blinded by his promises," a voice sounded from the door, and Caleb and Bridge turned, eyes widening in surprise as they saw Maddox and Seán standing there.

And both, Caleb and Bridge, drew a breath to say something, when Maddox stepped towards the table.

"We have a problem," he said grimly.

"This Lynwood's a fuckin' Pinkerton agent," Seán elaborated.

"He's a _what_?" Bridge had jumped up in shock and now slowly sank back down, burying his face in his hands.

"Are ya kiddin'?" Caleb breathed, but Seán shook his head.

"Finley knows him somehow, didn't tell us how. But yeah, that wanker's a Pink."

"Oh for..." Caleb joined Bridge in the gesture of despair. Silently, Seán and Maddox sat down with them, Seán giving Caleb a scrutinizing glance before looking around the room a little disturbed.

"Ya alright, boss?" he murmured.

Caleb nodded. "Been better." He rubbed his face. "The fuckin' Pinks..." and with a sharp glare at Bridge he continued, "Yer still certain there won't be a trap?"

Bridge just groaned, slumping back in his chair.

"Just our brand of luck, innit?" Maddox commented, earning an exhausted, but not disagreeing huff from Bridge. Caleb meanwhile was focused on the map, eyes narrowed as the gears in his brains clicked and clacked to find a way out of this mess.

"Bridge, on a word," Maddox finally murmured, raising and waving Bridge to the back door. Bridge followed, as did Caleb and Seán after exchanging a quick glance. Seán supported Caleb as they edged forward in order to not draw the other men's attention. It was clear that whatever Maddox had to say wasn't meant for their ears.

They found Bridge and Maddox sitting on a log by the door, their backs to the cabin, Maddox obviously much more agitated than he had let on in the cabin.

"...and once again we got the goddamn Pinkertons on us," Maddox lamented. "This is absurd. This is just..."

"I know... I know..." Much to Caleb's surprise, Bridge seemed much more exhausted and apologetic than he'd expected of the man. "Maybe you're right, maybe this is Hell..."

"Eh, weather's too nice for that," Maddox commented nonchalantly, and the two shared a curt, strained chuckle.

"We are doomed to repeat our mistakes, aren't we?" Bridge said, looking up at the sky. "I didn't think it would... But, heh, rejoice; you _were_ right about the thing in Clementsburg."

"Well, that weren't _all_ the same, if that helps anything."

"It certainly got the Pinkertons on our track." Bridge shook his head and crossed his arms in thought. "I just don't understand how they could have found us. Or what they _are_ planning now."

"Bad things," Caleb commented, making Bridge and Maddox spin around.

"How long you been standing there?" Maddox grunted, brows furrowed.

"'Bout the time ya said weather's too nice for this to be Hell." Caleb shook his head. "Look. I dunno an' frankly I don't _care_ what yer talkin' about, cause unless that happened in the two years I was missing, I don't remember the Pinktertons being after your arses before; so I dunno what that comment was about. But again: I don't care. What I care 'bout is getting me bacon out of the fire, and if that means workin' with ya an' gettin' yours out, too, so be it."

Maddox and Bridge rose, looking at each other. And finally Bridge cleared his throat. "I appreciate that. And... I do believe we owe you the whole story, whether you care or not."

He stalked back past Caleb and Seán, waving everyone to follow him back into the cabin, heavily sitting down on the table and lighting a cigar.

"What I'm going to tell you about me and Owen here will sound crazy," Bridge began, then stopped and locked eyes with Caleb. "Though after your story, Quinn, maybe not _that_ crazy..."

—

Finley was sitting on the General Store's porch, brooding over a list the owner had given him, while inside Charlie was talking to the daughters of the house again (flirting with the oldest one, really.)

"You good, boy?" Mr. Janson asked, looming over Finley.

Finley didn't like the gruffness in the man's voice, but he had long since figured he and Mr. Janson would never be friends, not after Finley cut the man's arm off in the massacre the Hellshire Gang brought upon Glenvale. He was grateful the Jansons let him work at the store to make up for it, but he was also certain they hadn't forgiven him. Charlie always told him he was just over-thinking things and that the situation wasn't as dire as Finley made it out to be. But Finley wasn't so certain. He knew how well he himself could hold a grudge, and he had seen what people thinking they are serving justice are capable of.

"Yes, sir."

"Words not too hard for you?"

Finley glared briefly. Caleb hadn't taught him reading and writing for people like Mr. Janson to act as if he was illiterate time and time again.

"It'd be easier if ya'd spell 'em right," Finley murmured, hoping he was quiet enough.

"What was that?" Janson narrowed his eyes.

"I said I'm thinkin' 'bout where to get all this," Finley said, earning a kick to his rear.

"That's not what I heard." Mr. Janson glared.

"If ya heard me just fine, why yer askin' what I said?" Finley snapped back, wincing as the words left his mouth. Luckily for him, Charlie stepped out of the store just that moment.

"Bein' an arse to Finn again, Mr. Janson?"

Janson harrumphed. "Boy needs to have his head screwed on right, that's what I'm doing. You done putting all that spiritualist nonsense into my daughters' heads?"

Charlie wrinkled his nose. "It's no nonsense, Mr. Janson."

"Speaking with the dead, how is that not nonsense? It's delusional and frankly savage."

"Far less savage than goin' at a frightened child with a knife an' then holding a grudge against the kid when he cuts yer bloody arm into pieces outta self-defense."

With a small growl Janson rolled his eyes. "Self-defense, my ass. You bastards raided the town and he tried to turn tail instead of facing things like a man when push came to shove."

"He was barely fifteen," Charlie sneered, and Mr. Janson drew breath for a rebuttal.

"Yes, Carl, he was no older than Elise is, and we all know how you don't treat her as anything but a child." This was Mrs. Janson standing in the doorway, looking reproachfully at her husband.

Finley let out a little whimper. While he knew Mrs. Janson wasn't on his side at all, he appreciated that she was at least warming up to him. Not that he trusted things like that easily.

"That's different," Mr. Janson grunted. "Elise isn't a ruthless brute who goes around taking joy in murdering and harming people."

Charlie and Mrs. Janson looked at each other and then at Finley, a scrawny stick of a young man with tousled hair and a sickly pale complexion who usually spent his time on his own, reading or fiddling with locks, who was fidgety and tended to stumble over his own feet.

"I believe that's enough now, Carl," Mrs. Janson said, taking her husband by his good arm and navigating him back into the store. "You have a shop to run, and the boy has to run errands. So, both of you, shoo." She waved her hand at Finley, who got up, pocketed the list and nodded at her.

"And don't dilly-dally, Finley," she said. "Some of those orders need to be out with the stagecoach. So hurry up."

"I know, ma'am." Finley nodded and turned away, staggering in surprise when he noticed Charlie following more than a whole minute later.

"Ya know what I'm goin' to say, Finn."

Finley just nodded. "I know. I shouldn't take it to heart like this. But... c'mon, the Jansons..."

"They don't _hate_ you. An' drop that notion that Mrs. Janson is trying to trick ya into somethin' bad."

They walked for a while, Finley keeping his eyes on the ground and his hands buried in his pockets.

"Charlie?" he finally said.

"Mhnn?"

"Do ya think Mr. Quinn will be fine?"

Charlie pressed his lips together, looking up at the sky for a moment, before nodding. "Yes. I got a weird feelin' 'bout this, but it ain't a bad one."

Finley nodded curtly, not looking at all as if he believed it.

"Yer still thinkin' it's yer fault, aren't ya?" Charlie asked.

Another nod.

"Oh, drop that notion, Finn." He looked the boy up and down. "There's more to this, ain't there?"

"No. I'm just... really worried." Finley stoically avoided Charlie's eye.

"If ya say so."

It wasn't until after the visit to two places on Finley's list that the kid finally got some courage to speak. "Charlie, do ya think Mr. Quinn _could_ be me da?"

Charlie stopped dead in his tracks and gazed at Finley in surprise. "I knew we shoulda stopped makin' jokes 'bout this."

"No. I mean it. I... I know he's been in prison, but..."

"Finn, if there's a 'but' I'd honestly like to hear it. 'Cause I'm damn certain ya know where babies come from. So why..."

"I been thinkin' 'bout me mum, and..." with a whimper Finley turned away. "Forget it. I... I'm sorry. Forget it." Finley stumbled more than he walked as he hurriedly put some distance between himself and Charlie, who was gazing after him, confused.

And frankly, very worried.

—

"Alright," Caleb concluded after sitting still and staring at the cabin's ceiling in thought for an uncomfortable long time. "Yer story's weirder."

"You don't believe a single word, do you?" Bridge sighed.

"On the contrary. Told ya, with the shit I saw, this don't shock me."

"'S still quite a tale," Seán added, drawing circles on the table with his finger and looking more sunken in thought than ever before.

"But every word's the truth," Bridge said, leaning back.

"'Cept the bits I corrected you on," Maddox noted, "'cause those certainly didn't happen like that."

Bridge scrunched up his face. "Oh, I am but an old man, son. Cut me some slack."

"And the bits you refuse to remember," Maddox added in a much darker tone and Bridge's face fell.

"I know, I know," he said, and sighed.

"Well, it's good to see ya have learned some o' yer lesson from things..." Caleb added, and gave Bridge an odd look. It took Bridge a bit till he understood what Caleb was wondering.

"Bridge. 'Bridge' will do perfectly fine. It's who I am, isn't it?" As Maddox nodded to that, he smiled a lopsided smile. "And no. I always thought I did, but as you can see..."

"Never say die, or something," Caleb insisted, raising his chin in defiance. "What ya just told me showed me a man who's been tryin' to do the right thing if ya get down to it... an' who instead had his ego have him jump face first into the pigsty."

Bridge ran a hand over his face. "Guess I was trying to make the same mistakes hoping things would go different..."

"Well, you _did_ go and trust that little rat again," Maddox nagged, and Bridge looked offended.

"Oh, that's not fair. I did deck him first when I ran into him."

"And _then_ you had him butter you up again."

"And _then_ I told him to go to Hell when I got to my senses," Bridge protested. "Much later, sure, but I _did_ get to my sense."

"See, that's what I mean with ya learnin' some o' yer lessons." Caleb grinned mischievously, causing Bridge to smile back. "An', by all bloody means, ya didn't repeat _all_ them mistakes, from what I can see."

"Guess you're right. But, well, truth be told," Bridge mused, "I made some new ones. Nothing big, and don't think I'm not thankful 'bout that. And then there's the things that didn't work out. I'm not certain they can be counted as 'mistakes' on my end... I mean, is it a 'mistake' when a humble thief can't even account for something in a plan to begin with? Like, I am still baffled by the thing you pulled with that train, I admit that. And I... do applaud you for that one, I really do."

Caleb swept a mocking bow. "Too kind."

"What thing with the train?" Maddox asked, looking a little scoldingly at Bridge.

"How Quinn here got me and most of the gang," Bridge explained hastily, biting his tongue by the looks of it and regretting having said anything. "Forget it. Not important."

Ah, yes, the four magical words to ensure someone will only get more suspicious. With a deep breath Maddox quirked a brow and folded his hands expectantly, giving Bridge a long, cool look.

"I thought he simply tracked ya down after a heist," Maddox said, smacking his lips briefly. "Always wondered why you was so bitter and secretive about it."

Caleb laughed at that. "Is that what ya told him, Bridge?"

Bridge groaned and turned away, and Caleb looked at Maddox.

"He told ya I simply tracked him an' the others down?" Caleb barked a laugh that quickly devolved into a pained cough as he held his chest. "Oh, that wasn't one of me brightest ideas." He waved Seán to sit back down. "Am fine. Don't worry." He still cackled.

"I think we got time for another story," Maddox said. "Maybe we can get our heads clearer to deal with the current problem."

"Me thoughts exactly." Caleb looked at Seán. "Yer a better story-teller; would ya kindly take this one from me?"

"Sure, boss." Seán nodded and sat up straight. "Fall, 1878. We were trailing the notorious Van der Bruggen gang after a number of train robberies between here and California. On top of a failed bank robbery, destruction of property an', well, ya know the list, Maddox. Police an' shite were all set on just putting up armed guards in disguise on a train transporting a shitload o' money from Chicago, an' just gun Bridge an' his men down for good, but what does Quinn do?" Seán grinned broadly. "He tells 'em not to have any guards, an' asks for a disused passenger car an' some tools. They thought he was crazy."

"I am crazy, Seán, ya know that." Caleb smirked.

Seán giggled. "An' what does he do when they give him what he asked for? He tells us to roll up our sleeves an' get to work. Few days later the bloody thing looked brand new... with some unique additions."

"Oh, and what additions they were," Bridge lamented. "Mind if I take the story from here?"

Both Caleb and Seán waved him to do so.

"So," Bridge began, "Small, unassuming train coming in from Chicago after nightfall. Four cars; freight, passengers, freight and mail and luggage, transporting twenty-five grand in cash. The plan was perfect. We had put up the means to stop the train as it passed through a secluded stretch of land in Iowa. Get in, get money from the rich passengers, and the motherlode from the freight car. Oh, we had a good laugh that they thought they could fool us by having no guards, pretending there's nothing special on that train." Bridge grinned, and then drew a long, dramatic breath. 

"But alas, what happened was something I admittedly couldn't have planned for. Doubt anyone could have. Heh, even when dealing with the infamous Deathslinger. So the train had stopped, and all goes as planned. Went in with half a dozen men I had with me, expecting the usual gaggle of rich passengers en route out west in that dimly lit passenger car. But what do we get instead? Mannequins. Goddamn mannequins all done up in some fancy clothes sitting there. And before we could gather our wits, slabs of steel come down over the doors, locking us in. Same with them windows. _Clang, clang, clang,_ like that. We were caught. And then, what happens then? All around us, panels slide open, revealing the muzzles of a dozen or so guns pointing at our sorry little group."

Maddox's eyes went wide, and he blinked in disbelief. "You're shittin' me."

"No. That's what happened." Bridge shrugged, defeated. "And the very moment we thought we was done for, one of the steel doors at the other end of the car opens, and Quinn struts in, that shit-eating grin on his face. Oh, he knew he had us by our balls."

"Oh, I knew. Ya shoulda seen yer face, Bridge." Caleb cackled. "So, we tied 'em up neatly an' delivered them straight to Hellshire. Did you know they were exhibiting that train car in Chicago?"

"Were they now?" Bridge groaned in disgust, and sighed. "But, yes. That is how Quinn ultimately got me behind bars." Accusingly, he pulled back his shirt, showing the branding. "He saw it necessary to do this, too, however." And he turned to Caleb, glaring. "Was there _really_ any reason for this? You branded me like a goddamn cow!"

"Ya tried to blow up our camp," Caleb noted. "Yer other men almost got y'all out while we were on the way here, an' ya blew it by tryin' to blow us up."

"Excuse me for bein' a little vengeful over the prospect of spending the rest of my life in prison after such humiliation at that moment." Bridge shook his head. "But I told you, I do applaud you for your ingenuity. Looking back I will gladly admit that it was a way of getting arrested that I _can_ respect. Still would have preferred to get away, but I _can_ respect it."

Once more Caleb swept a small bow. "An' a little less than two years later, I put ya behind bars, Maddox."

Maddox smiled wryly. "As I said, 'twas the best thing that coulda happen to me, in some twisted bullshit way. Of all them faces in the world, Bridge's was the last one I expected seeing when they ushered me into that cell."

"Feeling's mutual," Bridge said, grinned, and finished his cigar. Then he smiled wistfully. "Talking like this, it makes one feel as if somehow things could still turn out alright now..."

"I say they can," Caleb said, leaning forward. "An' judgin' by yer grin, ya just got some fresh oil on them gears in yer head."

Bridge leaned forward as well, locking eyes with Caleb. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Quinn?"

"I'm almost certain of it."

The two grinned, and Seán looked at Maddox before raising his hand. "We don't."

Caleb waved them closer, looming over the map on the table. "Lynwood picked the loggin' camp on purpose, that's a given."

"The bit about the hills you mentioned. I admit, you were more than likely right, Quinn." Bridge traced a finger over the map. "This means he'll try to put someone in these spots."

"Snipers?" Maddox asked. Bridge nodded.

"Owen, get some men and uproot trees here, here and here..."

"No, not there," Caleb interrupted, pointing at the map. "If you block the path there they'll notice something's wrong. Ya ought to go _here_." He tapped his finger on the parchment.

Not long after, a lot of knick knacks were scattered over the map as Caleb and Bridge laid out their plan, all the while Seán and Maddox grimaced as if they were either proud of those two working together, or fearing for their lives.

Maybe it was both.

—

Finley's feet had carried him across town like he was sleepwalking. He had done everything on his list, without really thinking about it, perceiving the world around him like through a veil. Right now he just wanted to be alone. His head hurt from the amount of things going through it, and his stomach hurt from some of them and the conclusions he drew.

There was a quiet, dry spot behind the hotel, hidden from view by stairs and crates that was a little tricky to get to; but Finley was nimble, and a little desperate to get away from the noise of the streets. He pulled up his legs and rested his head on his knees, trying to not think at all for a moment. In silence, he watched the few people walking around pass by his hiding spot, his breath slowing and his eyes fluttering shut.

Only for him to snap wide awake when he heard a dreadfully familiar voice just outside his little nook.

"In a town like this, it should not have been so hard to find this spot."

Finley peeked through a gap between the crates and froze, color draining entirely from his face. His heart pounded in his throat with fear and rage. He had heard right. Standing only a few feet away was Agent Lynwood, talking to someone who was just now coming out the hotel's backdoor.

"It's thus perfect, Giles, don't you agree?" said the other man, and Finley recognized him as the guy Seán had been talking to the other night. Hodgeson, wasn't it?

"I can't fully disagree," Lynwood said, inspecting his gloves, "but you do have me stooping down to the levels of shady lowlife scum like Van der Bruggen and his ilk."

In his hiding spot, Finley was seething, digging his nails into his arm to keep himself from doing something he'd regret.

"A necessary evil," said Hodgeson. "By virtue of you being here I assume your side agreed on the proposed change in the plan."

Lynwood nodded and produced a folded piece of paper. "Your side did some thorough work. I appreciate that. But as we said, it will be quite tricky to keep Quinn unscathed. I also have my doubts someone like Caleb Quinn has it in him to show appropriate gratefulness for being rescued from the clutches of vengeful outlaws."

"We shall see. He's a fool and a half." Hodgeson took the piece of paper and studied it for a while before pocketing it. "This looks good. If I wouldn't know your man is hauling coal in Hell by now, I would have said his information was worth every penny."

Lynwood chuckled darkly. "I agree. And I admit, Mr. Booker has been very useful in this."

"So you _are_ getting Kelly as well?"

Lynwood nodded. "I would assume the sheer mass of people will make it easier for us to not get Quinn caught in the crossfire. But again, I cannot guarantee anything."

Hodgeson harrumphed. "We are aware. And I recall you don't wish to hear this, but had you not failed in locating both Mr. Wallace and the documents, we would not have to go to such extremes."

"I see it as a blessing still. We shall rid the world of two notorious outlaws and their gangs, and get Caleb Quinn under our thumb." Lynwood cocked his head in thought. "I must say, however, I am not keen on there being a chance of Van Laren having survived."

"That's your side's fault, Giles. You should have been a little more insistent on not going through with _that_ plan. There was no need for it, and it's a miracle it didn't mess with the rest of things."

Lynwood sighed heavily. "You know how our clients are. And you know what's at stake for me. And for _you_."

"Oh, I know, I know." Hodgeson waved Lynwood off dismissively. "But let's concentrate on the matter at hand. I meant to ask, any chances of getting Van der Bruggen alive?"

"Oh, I will try. As I was telling Mr. Booker, I aim to have him beg to be arrested once we're through with him and his men."

"Good."

"May I ask why you are suddenly interested in his survival, and not just Quinn's?"

Hodgeson pulled Lynwood closer and whispered something. Finley cringed. With what these two had talked about before... If they were whispering now, they were up to something even more horrifying than what Finley had been able to piece together of their other plan. As he looked back, Lynwood seemed surprised and a little impressed, and nodded, self-satisfied.

"That's a development I didn't expect," he said. "It would seem the Lord does reward the righteous."

Hodgeson chuckled, and patted Lynwood on the shoulder. "Well, we shall go forth and do God's work then, shall we not. Farewell, Giles. Oh, and let me say, the others at the firm are still missing you."

"Oh, give them my regards once you are back in New York, will you?"

Again Hodgeson nodded, and the two men parted ways.

Finley wiped cold sweat off his face, his heart still in his throat alongside bile. He wanted to scream and cry; his mind raced with fear, despair and rage. He bit down on his hand and drew blood before crawling out of his hiding spot, taking a deep breath, and setting out after the lawyer. With every step, the plan in his head became more solid, his heart and breath now speeding with anticipation. He pressed his injured hand against the inside of his pocket to stop the bleeding, flexing his fingers when that was done, all the while weaving his way through the passersby as he followed Hodgeson.

Then all it took was a tiny bit of shuffling to get Hodgeson to trip in front of the tailor's, a quick and _absolutely_ honest display of worry as Finley helped that rotten lawyer back up with the help of some of the other people around. And before Hodgeson could get a decent look at Finley, the boy had ducked out of sight. All that was left to do now was hope that the lawyer didn't immediately check his pockets for anything missing.

Finley sat down on the saloon's backstairs and unfolded the newly acquired piece of paper, cocking his head in confusion at the map drawn on it.

It was a good drawing with a couple of mathematical equations and bits that looked as if someone wanted to illustrate how the view looked from certain spots. Finley scratched his head, not knowing what to make of it. But he knew two things:

One, with this Lynwood and Hodgeson involved, it meant nothing good. And two, he'd have to look up a word for just how bad this was once he got the chance.


	12. Chapter 12

Tommy turned the paper in his hands, tilting his head in thought.

"I'm not sure," he finally mumbled, "But I'd say that's the old logging camp. Ain't that where they gonna meet?"

Charlie nodded. "I think so."

Finley was sitting on the edge of Tommy's bed, worrying his cuffs. "Any idea what it means?"

"Nothin' good, that's for certain." Tommy shook his head. He hadn't expected Finley and Charlie to pay him a visit, and especially not one bringing such dire news. Also he was getting worried for Finley, who struck him as more fidgety than usual. "Ya alright there?"

Finley nodded, gazing into the distance, all while turning one of his knives between his fingers. Tommy sighed and looked back at the drawing the kid had stolen from this Hodgeson guy.

"I'm tryin' to remember where I saw these squiggles before." He scratched his head. The map had writing on it, for lack of a better word, but it was all more symbols and random lines than any form of letters. And Tommy was certain he had seen them before.

"Some sort of code or somethin'?" Charlie suggested.

"'S gotta be, don't it?" Tommy folded the map again, laid back and stared at the ceiling. "What would they need a map for, anyway?"

"Beats me," Charlie responded, crossing his arms. "I got a better question: Why giv'it to that lawyer when the Pinkerton agent's heading to that camp? Shouldn't he keep that map?"

"Maybe..." Tommy gestured vaguely, "Maybe they still got someone else comin' in what will need a map?" Then he shook his head. "Don't make sense, does it?"

"It makes some," Charlie murmured, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket.

"Gonna ask the hereafter for help?" Finley asked, despite knowing the answer would be a yes. And Charlie nodded.

"I got a weird feeling about this, wanna see if I'm right." With a deep sigh Charlie sat down on the desk in the corner, shuffling the deck. Finley and Tommy exchanged glances, before watching him patiently. No matter what one thought about Charlie's beliefs, there was no denying he had been right with his assumptions and feelings often enough.

Charlie peered down at the cards once laid out, brows knitting together.

"What?" Finley asked after he found the silence had gone on for too long.

Charlie rose rather abruptly, packing his cards again. "I need to go to New Hamelin."

"That's what the cards say?"

With a rather uncertain look Charlie turned to look at Finley. "There's more trouble ahead than we expected."

"Why New Hamelin? Shouldn't ya head to Copperwood?" Tommy wondered.

"No. New Hamelin it is. And I oughta get goin'. If I leave now I should be there just after nightfall." At the door Charlie stopped, turning back briefly. "Wish me luck. This isn't lookin' good." And he was out, leaving Tommy and Finley both confused and worried.

—

Time seemed to flow like molasses in Bridge's camp. A lot of the men were nervous after the recent revelation, and now everyone in camp was busy preparing for what was to come. At least for what the most likely scenarios were. Bridge was out scouting the area around the old logging camp, Caleb was fast asleep, and Seán and Maddox were out hunting since dawn.

And by all means, the atmosphere between the latter two was the most tense.

"Alright, cards on the table," Maddox finally grunted. "We're both thinkin' this is stupid, and we're both right."

"The thing with Quinn an' the Pin-...?" Seán began, and Maddox gazed at him unimpressed, making Seán sigh in defeat. "Yeah, yeah, I know what ya mean. Look, I'm not mad at ya. Not massively."

"'Tis my fault you nearly died; I owe you an apology."

Seán shook his head, leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette. "Don't. Times were different then."

"No, they weren't. I fuckin' ratted you out to Kelly like..." Maddox groaned. "You were a good man, O'Brian. A complete little shit, but a good man."

"Am," Seán grinned. "Not 'was'. 'Am'."

Maddox grinned curtly. "Still, you're missing an ear cause I dragged you to Kelly instead of hearing you out."

"Half an ear," Seán corrected again, tapping the _corpus delicti_ with a crooked smile. "An' I can still hear pretty well. As for what happened that night... C'mon, ya caught me eavesdroppin' on Kelly an' this guy, an' ya knew how Kelly would react to the prospect o' someone spyin' on him."

"That's what I'm talking about. I have something like a conscience, O'Brian, you know that. And no, I didn't expect him to shoot your ear off and then put a bullet between your ribs and leave you to die. I should have, though." With a small snort Maddox took the cigarette Seán offered him. "And had I known how that mess would end..."

"Which part d'ya mean? Me joining Quinn or the whole thing Kelly's been plotting with that arse turnin' out to be a trap?"

"Both I guess," Maddox said, sitting down at Seán's feet and taking a long drag of the cigarette.

"I heard that fiasco was how ya left Kelly's gang?"

Maddox nodded. "Can be happy I got me arse out in one-piece. Wanna hear the punchline? Didn't actually mean to leave. Got separated from the group I was fleeing with. Spent some time in the wilderness, and by the time I got to a city, everyone what got arrested back there had either been hanged or was rottin' in Hellshire. I had no idea where Kelly and the others had wound up, and I wasn't going to look for them." He smiled up at Seán. "And hey, I think in the end that was for the best."

Seán sat down. "How so?"

"Look at yourself. I been riding with Kelly for just two years in the end, but if anyone would ask I'd say the time with Quinn did a miracle on you." Maddox grinned, handing the cigarette back. "You been a bit of Kelly's whipping boy without a real friend in the gang."

"Oh, I had one, but that was before ya joined. We was thick as thieves, guess that came with both o' us gettin' the short end ev'ry time."

Maddox' smile fell. "I know it's something you gotta expect with that life, but I'm still sorry to hear."

It took Seán a moment to understand what Maddox meant. "Oh, no, he's fine. That life, as ya put it, wasn't for 'im at all. He's really good with horses, so I gots him a job with a livery over in Iowa. Last time I visited he was doin' well."

"Oh."

Seán laughed and pressed the dogend into the ground. "Yeah. See, at least that worked out decently."

"And I met Bridge. I think had I stayed with Kelly..."

"Ya'd be dead."

Maddox nodded and got up. "Heh, I also heard rumors ya got yerself a sweetheart."

Seán blushed deep red. "Now yer just bein' mean."

"Just teasin'." Maddox smiled and helped Seán back up. "Back to hunting then."

Copperwood Grove had its reputation as a maze for a good reason. There were rumors that paths through the woods could and would change thoroughly when no one was looking. Whether or not Seán and Maddox believed in them (Seán did), it was beyond doubt that the paths through the woods _were_ treacherous, and the recent storms had only made the matter worse.

The ground was scattered with broken branches, and those the storm hadn't brought down entirely were hanging overhead like the sword of Damocles. The moss and fallen leaves held the rain well, creating a slippery carpet under one's foot. Seán and Maddox edged forward, sometimes more sliding down slopes than climbing down them.

The storm had provided both sides in this, animals and humans, with the same obstacles, and it was up to each on their own to make it an advantage for themselves or not.

As the afternoon started to fade into the evening, Seán and Maddox could be proud of their hunt. One deer, two rabbits and a quail; that should do for the camp and for the inevitable move of the gang to a new location. That was if the plan worked out. It was a calculation with too many unknowns, but at the same time it was a plan that was forged in the fires of both Caleb's and Bridge's lunacy. Maybe it would work. Maybe.

Maddox was mulling over it, as Seán suddenly stopped him.

"Did ya hear that?"

Maddox stopped, baffled for only a moment before listening. There were voices nearby, angry voices. He looked at Seán, carefully put the dead deer down and signaled Seán to crouch closer.

A few feet away, obscured by bushes and trees from further below, the ground stopped and turned into a thirty foot drop. At the bottom of that drop a handful of men were busy stacking crates, one guy, probably some sort of foreman, barking orders.

"Careful with that, you idiot!" he snarled as one of the men stumbled with a crate. "This hollow's deep enough as it is."

"Ain't got no liquids, boss," the other man defended himself, earning a slap to the back of the head.

"No reason to risk it."

The other man put the crate down, nodding quickly.

Seán and Maddox looked at each other in worry and confusion as the men below began covering the crates up with dark canvas, branches and leaves.

"Are they tryin' to hide it or make sure someone gets suspicious?" Seán whispered, and Maddox shrugged.

"Beats me." He hazarded a glance around. "There's no way back up here from below, is there?"

"Ya wanna check what's in them crates?"

"Explosives, I'd guess."

"It's a given, innit?" Seán frowned darkly. "But yeah, better safe than sorry."

Maddox nodded and crawled backwards. "Let's get things back to the camp an' then come back."

Seán nodded as well, following him. One look between them told them both that they were thinking the same thing: Those had been Pinkertons.

—

Charlie had been spot-on with his estimation for his arrival in New Hamelin. The question now was where in the town he had to go. New Hamelin was quite a bit larger than Glenvale, and the latter wasn't a mere outpost anymore.

All Charlie was certain of was what he was looking for, though that wasn't necessarily helpful. His sources were all too gladly living up to their reputation of being dreadfully cryptic in their prophecies and advice, so Charlie was grateful he had a bit of experience of consulting with the deceased (and potentially, with beings beyond that.) So what he knew was that he was looking for the guy in the black poncho.

Once again.

Maybe the fact that he had initially lost track of that guy had been fate in the end. But be it what it may, now Charlie had to find him again, and better sooner than later.

It must have been an odd sight for the late-night passersby to see a man on horseback have his horse pretty much do a little dance in the middle of the square while he was looking around. Charlie didn't care about the odd looks it earned him; he was used to it. And the eyes of the living were far less piercing than those of the deceased. He leaned forward, patting his horse's neck gently.

"Now, Wicklow, where shall we go?"

The horse seemed to look around as well, its ears flicking with attention before it turned and trotted down the road. Charlie let his gaze wander over the dimly lit streets, one hand on Wicklow's reins, the other resting on his revolver. He couldn't help his hand twitching as Wicklow moved down a dark alley, away from the few people still out on the streets.

"Now wontcha look at that."

Charlie stopped and turned, looking down at a familiar face. Not that it was a friendly reunion.

"Murphy. I was wond'rin' how ya hadn't kicked the bucket yet."

The other man grinned, and the sound of a rifle being cocked echoed behind Charlie. Charlie sighed.

"Riley," he noted, not even turning around. "Kinda expected to run into the two o' ya again at some point."

"Still got some bones t' pick wi' ya, Mulligan," Murphy said, drawing his gun. "Ya outta know best: No rest for the wicked."

Charlie smiled bitterly and got off his horse. "What will it be then?" he asked, raising his hands. "Gonna kill me right here an' now or take yer time wi' it?"

"After all ya done?" Riley sneered, pressing his rifle into Charlie's back. "How d'ya think the first thing's an option?"

"Worth the try, innit?" Charlie smiled, bracing himself just in time for Riley's fist connecting with his face. Wicklow neighed in sympathy and Charlie staggered back upright, rubbing his face.

"But we gots to get ya alive, y'know," Murphy grunted, grabbing Charlie by the arm. "This a bit bigger issue than revenge."

Riley uncocked and shouldered his rifle, taking Wicklow's reins. "We'll still kill ya in a way ya deserve it, Mulligan. Jus' not now."

Murphy nodded with a toothy grin. "So get movin'. Faster we're through with this, faster you'll get what ya got comin'."

—

"Oh, this has got to be a _joke_!" Bridge frowned, sitting back on the cabin's porch. "Two dozen crates you say?"

"Roughly," Seán confirmed. He and Maddox had just returned from venturing back into the forest and seeing about the 'gifts' the Pinkertons had left behind, and neither of them liked what they had found.

As expected those crates had been full of explosives, and as feared they had found another stack nearby.

Bridge rubbed his forehead. "I'd almost ask if this could get worse, but I know better than to tempt fate like that."

"Any idea what they might wanna blow up?" Maddox asked. "'Sides us, I mean."

"Something at the rendezvous site, that's a given," Bridge said, then rose and entered his cabin, waving Seán and Maddox to follow.

Seán couldn't help but turn towards the bed where Caleb was sleeping peacefully, at least by the looks of it.

"How much morphine did ya give him?" Seán asked bluntly.

"Enough for him to sleep the night through," Bridge answered in the same tone, then frowned almost apologetically. "Don't worry, son, he told me how he is with it and I respect that. It's just enough to help him sleep."

Seán nodded, face set, and Bridge waved him over to the table, rolling out a map of the old logging camp.

"The obvious location would be this path here," Bridge said, tracing a finger along the map. "Close it off with an explosion and whoever is inside the camp is stuck there."

"There's enough explosives in the forest to blow a whole new path into the site," Maddox noted, and Bridge shook his head.

"That's the part I can't make sense of. They can't plan on using it against us directly, not with them wanting Quinn alive."

"Are we certain they want 'im alive?"

Bridge looked at Maddox again and nodded decidedly. "Absolutely. Don't ask me what for, but there's no doubt they want him alive."

Maddox nodded, and loomed over the map again. "It's so goddamn much they got there... Whaddaya say? Go and water it down?"

Suddenly Bridge fell quiet, rubbing his chin in thought, occasionally gesturing as if he were moving things in front of him around. "Maybe that _is_ it. Maybe..." he furrowed his brow. "Maybe it's just such an amount in case we happen to find a stack or two."

"Backup?" Maddox asked, and Bridge nodded.

"It's not for certain, however. There's too many possibilities."

Maddox looked at Seán. "Hey O'Brian, ain't yer sweetheart an expert on explosives?"

Seán knitted his brows as his cheeks flushed. "Yeah, he is..." He cast a gloomy side-glance at Bridge, "And if _someone_ hadn't shot him in the leg, he'd be here to tell us what their target might be, if that's what yer getting at."

Bridge rose his head and a brow. "Burke's your sweetheart?" Then he shrugged. "Ain't you two a match made in Hell... Could he tell what such an amount is needed for?"

"Prolly."

"Now then... O'Brian? You ride back to Glenvale and..."

"Am not leavin' Quinn all alone with ya." Seán glowered, causing Bridge to sigh.

"No one will harm him. Further. And I'm certain he'd appreciate the concern."

"Sure, but I still ain't leavin' him alone," Seán insisted, lips pressed into a thin line. "He's... He's the only thing like family I gots left."

Bridge nodded solemnly, "I understand what you mean, but..." then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What?" Seán groaned briefly.

"Quinn mentioned you're a grifter, and a damn good one at that. Now I wonder if you're just saying this because you're trying to get to me or..."

Sean blew a raspberry. "He also keeps sayin' I'm the worst liar what he knows." He rolled his eyes. "I mean, sure, if I'd try to con ya that _is_ what I'd do, but I mean it. Quinn and the others are all what I got in terms o' fam'ly. Me da died, and the man what me mum married after that treats me like shit on his shoes."

A silent moment filled the cabin, before Bridge shook his head.

"Sorry to hear."

Seán shrugged. "Eh, don't. She made her decisions, I made mine. An' that was quite some while ago. I'm happier now."

With a curt nod of acknowledgment Bridge looked back down at the map. "I swear, Quinn won't come to harm while you're away. If you ride to Glenvale now you could be back while there's enough time to set a plan into motion."

"If an' could," Seán grunted. "Ya know, had ya not shot Tommy..."

"Yeah that wasn't one o' yer best plans, Bridge," a rather slurry voice sounded from behind them and they turned almost in unison.

"Boss!" Seán exclaimed, and Caleb smiled drowsily. 

"Yer all makin' such a bloody ruckus." Caleb squirmed onto his front, his good arm flopping down the side of the bed. "It'll be winter til y'all get yer shite together at this pace... Ya still haven't even decided what those crates are 'bout."

Bridge crossed his arms defiantly. "If you're up for that long you coulda said something earlier."

"Could not," Caleb murmured. "Too much morphine..."

"Oh." Bridge sighed and nodded. "Alright then. Well, what do _you_ think is going on?"

"Beats me. How much time we got?"

Bridge checked his watch. "By now? Rendezvous' tomorrow by nightfall."

Caleb groaned and looked at Seán. "In the hope it ain't the morphine talkin'... Go and get Tommy's input. An' tell Charlie to keep an eye on that Hodgeson." He groaned. "This is so much fuckin' bigger than I'd like..."

The other men nodded gloomily. And Bridge's frown deepened.

"It's always the simple-looking jobs that shape up to be the most rotten ones, innit?" he addressed Maddox tiredly, who nodded in sullen agreement.

"What about the guy in the black poncho?" Maddox then added.

"No idea how he fits into any o' this, but I gots a bad feelin'," Caleb said. "Y'know how good Charlie's at spyin' on people, and if he gots trouble trailin' that guy and gettin' anything worthwhile 'bout him by now..."

After a moment of pressing silence Bridge smacked his lips and looked at the ceiling forlornly. "...The most rotten ones indeed."

—

Finley was wandering the streets again. In Mr. Janson's absence, Mrs. Janson had given him the day off so he could clear his head, but the more Finley tried, the worse things got.

"Mr. O'Connor?" a woman called and Finley looked up. Miss Catherine was standing nearby, waving him over. He nodded, a bit baffled, and approached.

"Please, ma'am, 'Finn' or 'Finley' will do." He tipped his hat at her. "Ev'ryone calls me that. Well, usually. People like Mr. Janson call me other things."

"So I heard. Horrible."

Finley sighed. "Well, it's me own fault. But still, I thinks people are right when they say I'm too young to be addressed all posh an' formally."

Miss Catherine smiled. "Alright. Miss Josie asked me to continue to keep an eye on you, I won't keep that a secret."

Again Finley sighed. "That's... kind. But, I'll be fine. I think."

Miss Catherine simply cocked her head. "I don't think Miss Josie would ask me to look after you if she thought that'd be the case." As Finley gave an annoyed whine of surrender, Miss Catherine stepped aside, gesturing at the door of the little building they were standing in front of. "Do come in. We're about to have breakfast, if you'd like to join."

Finley squirmed a little. "That's... really kind, ma'am." He shuffled a little and ducked into the house, letting Miss Catherine lead him to the sitting room. Finley couldn't help but gawk around a little. Certainly, Glenvale had seen quite a bit of a boost in the last two years, and more and more new buildings _were_ brick and mortar rather than wood. Still it was a bit of a novelty to see such houses here.

"'Tis a very nice home, ma'am," Finley said, taking off his hat.

"That's very kind of you." She waved Finley to take a seat, but before he could do so, Mrs. Watkins entered the room, giving him a scrutinizing look.

"So this is the young man you have been asked to keep an eye on?" she began.

"That he is," Miss Catherine confirmed, and Finley nodded a greeting. Mrs. Watkins pushed her glasses up her nose and nodded in approval.

"Wash your hands then, young man."

Finley blinked for a moment, and hurried off as Mrs. Watkins waved him to where he could do so. Minutes later he was seated at a small, quite frilly table, the sense of how awkward the whole situation was sinking in.

"As I heard Mr. Quinn got himself into trouble," Mrs. Watkins began after a while, making Finley look up from nibbling some cornbread and broiled ham. And the boy's face fell and he placed his food back on the plate.

"That... that was me fault, ma'am," he said.

"Oh, we talked about this," Miss Catherine protested gently. "It's not, and you ought to stop saying it.

Finley just nodded gloomily and went back to eating. Much slower than before, though.

"Listen, boy," Mrs. Watkins started after a moment of watching the spectacle. "I don't mean to antagonize you, or Mr. Quinn, even though I am steadfast in my opinion that he and his lot are horrible people."

Finley grumbled sourly, brows furrowing. "For someone sayin' yer not wantin' to antagonize, yer not bein' too kind to me family."

"They made their choices, and I have the right to judge them for it."

Now Miss Catherine rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Watkins, would you kindly not. Finley's a good lad, and he has enough on his mind as it is. So could we please just eat?" She cast Finley an apologetic glance. Finley nodded quickly and got back to eating. Mrs. Watkins, however...

"What happened to your actual family, boy? Kitty just told me Mr. Quinn was forced to take you under his wing."

Finley winced at the words, then blinked. "Kitty?" He looked at Miss Catherine. "Oh, that... that'd be you, right?" As Miss Catherine nodded, he continued. "Never knew me da, ma'am. An' me mum... Me mum's dead." His voice grew sour and bitter. "They put me in an orphanage. Ran away 'fore I was seven. An' no one _forced_ Mr. Quinn to care for me."

Mrs. Watkins opened her mouth to comment on that, Miss Catherine looking ready to cut her off, but Mrs. Watkins instead raised her voice in surprise, looking at something outside.

"Isn't that Mr. O'Brian?"

Miss Catherine and Finley turned. And indeed Seán was just riding past the window. Finley winced, getting up.

"This can't be good. I... I ought to go," he stammered, nodding politely, if a little begrudgingly, at Mrs. Watkins. "Thank you for the breakfast, ma'am." Then he nodded apologetically at Miss Catherine. "Thank you too, I... I'm sorry I can't stay longer." He turned towards the door, when something behind him shuffled.

"I'm coming with you," Miss Catherine said, raising her hand to stop Mrs. Watkins from protesting. "I have promised to keep an eye on Mr. O'Connor, Mrs. Watkins; and I intend to uphold said promise. And this concerns Mr. Quinn, more than likely. You would not want me to grow sick with worry, would you?"

Mrs. Watkins just harrumphed. "You are taking so much after your mother, Kitty. God bless her soul."

Finley hadn't overcome his bafflement when Miss Catherine had donned a shawl and was very much dragging him out the house, following Seán.

Seán stopped his horse in front of the doctor's office, noticing Finley and Miss Catherine coming up the street the moment he got out of the saddle.

"Oh, hey," he greeted, looking more confused than worried. "Whatcha doin' here?"

"That's what I wanted to ask ya," Finley began, a little out of breath. "What... Is Mr. Quinn alright?"

Seán nodded quickly. "Yeah, Bridge's playin' on our side now. But we gots a problem I need t' talk to Tommy about." He inclined his head towards the doctor's office. "Best we talk 'bout this inside."

Finley nodded, and looked at Miss Catherine.

"You should come too, miss," Seán said before Finley could get a word out. "I knows this will get ya worried, but so will not knowin' what's goin' on."

Miss Catherine nodded curtly, and it took a couple of minutes (mostly on account of having to explain things to Doc Yeung first, followed by the doc, his wife and Miss Catherine cussing the Pinkertons out,) til they were sitting with Tommy, filling him in as well.

"Oh, that's bad," Tommy murmured, rubbing his head, and then crossed his arms in thought.

"Figures," Seán murmured, propping his elbows onto the bed, head in hands. "Think they're goin' to cut off them escape routes or blow ev'ryone to bits?"

Tommy rubbed his chin, face grim.

"Oh, I know that face," Seán said, grimacing. "It's worse than we thought, innit?"

"I think they wanna smoke ya out."

"Smoke them out?" Miss Catherine asked.

"With that much gunpowder... If I brought that much I wouldn't be out to blow anythin' up. No. While that could work... I think they're out to drown the basin in smoke. Maybe hope y'all'll be shooting each other."

The others looked severely taken aback.

"Don't make much sense if they wants Quinn alive," Seán mused, shaking his head.

"What if they only do what Mr. Burke said _after_ they got Mr. Quinn safe and secure?" Miss Catherine suggested. The others looked at her with growing worry.

"That's absolutely an option, innit?" Seán ventured, and Tommy nodded.

"Yeah. Good thinkin' there, ma'am."

Miss Catherine smiled, and Seán leaned back in thought.

"So what now?"

"Water down the stacks furthest from the camps, if ya can find'em. I dunno, but I think the ones close where ya are..."

"Ya think they wanted them to find 'em?" Finley finished the thought.

Again Tommy nodded. "This is a fuckin' mess."

At this, Seán rose. "Well, I oughta get goin' then. It's a bit of a ride back to Copperwood, an' if yer right an' there's more of that shite hidden in the woods..." he leaned over and pressed a small kiss to Tommy's temple. "Good to have ya."

"Ya keep an eye on yerself, ya hear me?" Tommy said, and Seán grinned.

"Yer not gettin' rid o' me this easily, ya knows that." He looked at Finley and then at Miss Catherine. "Please keep an eye on Finley."

As Miss Catherine nodded, Seán smiled satisfied and hurried out the door.

He was barely at the stairs, when footsteps came up behind him. Seán turned around.

Finley.

The boy stood there, wringing his hands, but his face was full of determination.

"I'm comin' with you," he said, but Seán stepped closer with one big step and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"You stay here, Finn."

"Why?" Finley looked as if he was getting angry.

Seán blinked. "Because Quinn will kill me if I bring yer arse into this. This's shapin' up to be worse than any fight ya've ever been in."

Now the kid looked taken aback. "I... Ya both know I can very well fight. I can handle it."

"No. Not when yer like this," Seán said. Finley wasn't having any of it, judging by his expression. Seán cocked his head and whimpered softly, searching Finley's eyes. "Look, Finn, I _know_ ya can fight, and Quinn knows that, too. But both o' ya been really besides yerself an'... look, I'm worried for ya, okay?"

Finley gazed up at Seán, his lips trembling a little. "I'm fine."

"Yer not. For Pete's sake, they say I'm a bad liar when I'm not connin' people, but yer worse right now." With a heavy sigh Seán pushed a strand of hair from Finley's face and caressed his cheek. "Look, I dunno what that Lynwood ever did to ya. But, fuck, that guy got ya rattled like anythin'. I don't think bringin' ya anywhere near him would end well, y'know."

Finley tried to hold Seán's gaze for a while, before he lowered his eyes and pulled Seán into a tight hug. "Ya promise you'll get Mr. Quinn back safe?"

Seán rubbed the kid's back gently, rocking him slightly. "Can't make promises, much as I'd like. This is a rat-shit situation..." he paused. "An' no, it's not yer fault. At all. Bridge woulda found us in any case, an', hey, I think without ya that clash woulda ended much worse, prolly."

"Still," Finley mumbled.

"Bullshit. Ya did nuffin wrong, Finn." Seán pulled back, his hands on Finley's shoulders. "I'll try me best to get Quinn back in one piece with a pulse. I mean, I want him back like that, too. An' you go an' get yer mind back on track, okay?"

Finley sighed, chewed his lip and ultimately nodded.

Seán pulled him into a hug again, ruffling the boy's hair as he let go. "Now ya go back to Tommy an' Miss Catherine. Keep an eye on Tommy for me, will ya?"

Finley sniffed softly. "Alright." Seán watched him head back to Tommy's room, before he descended the narrow staircase and mounted his horse outside. This was going to be a long, long day.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Additional warnings: Death, mutilation)

It was a pretty little townhouse they brought him to, Charlie mused. Much too nice for the likes of Murphy and Riley. But these two were Kelly's men and this was kinda of Kelly's taste. Yet Charlie couldn't imagine the old bastard actually buying a house somewhere, especially not this close to Glenvale. Kelly was bold, but not this bold. Charlie rightfully wondered what this meant.

He grunted as Murphy forced him down onto a chair in a quite fancy drawing room, Riley tying his hands behind the back.

"We oughta start by takin' that other eye of yours," Murphy began, pulling up another chair and sitting down across from Charlie, face sour. "But the boss will do so much worse t' us if we do."

Charlie quirked his brow. "Ya mean Kelly, or are the two o' ya working for someone else now?"

"Wouldn't ya like to know, Mulligan?" Murphy sneered back.

"Y'know," Riley interrupted, stepping next to Murphy and glaring at Charlie, "We ain't working with Kelly anymore."

Murphy let out a short, annoyed howl. "Will ya shuddup, Riley? He ain't s'posed to _know_."

Riley gestured at Charlie in offended defense. "Mulligan prolly already knows! What with him talkin' to the dead an' all."

"Oh fuck off, Riley. Ya still believe that shite? There's no such thing as ghosts, or spirits or anything comin' back from death."

"Quinn came back."

"Quinn prolly weren't dead! Ya can't come back from the dead if ya never died."

Riley pondered. "What 'bout that Duffy guy you an' O'Brian found in a tree? He said he died."

"The guy didn't have his head on right, and ya knows that. An' he likely had somethin' to hide."

"Gentlemen!" Charlie interrupted, "As amusing as yer little lovers' tiff is, I believe we got some business, don't we?"

Murphy and Riley turned to Charlie with a perfectly synched glare, but Charlie just smiled kindly.

"Now, now," he said. "You know who I am an' how I do what I do. Which leads me to the conclusion that yer working for this ominous man in the black poncho."

The two other men exchanged slightly worried glances; Riley more so than his partner, before Murphy shook his head.

"I dunno what yer talkin' about, Mulligan."

"That'd be disappointing," a fourth voice called and Riley and Murphy spun around to face precisely whom Charlie had been speaking about. "After all, I'm paying you quite well for your services. Shame to learn you forgot what that money's for."

Murphy grimaced, and then looked triumphantly at Riley. "Hah! See, Mulligan's not talkin' to them dead. He just saw the guy standin' there."

Riley grumbled. "That's no proof. That's just Mulligan bein' an arsehole again."

"Gentlemen," the man in the black poncho called. "Please. This is urgent business, and you know it." He stepped closer to Charlie, looking him up and down. "I will be honest with you, Mr. Mulligan, I kinda would have preferred Mr. Matthews or Mr. O'Brian to be in your place."

"If ya tell me why, I can likely tell you why neither of those two is an option if he ever was." Charlie flashed a most winning smile. "I assume from yer tone yer not out to kill me, much to these two gentlemen's..." he inclined his head towards Murphy and Riley, "dismay."

The man in black nodded. "We caught a little rat and we need some help getting important information out of him. I believe you'll agree that Mr. Matthews or Mr. O'Brian are better suited for such task."

Charlie chewed his lips in thought, then nodded sagely. "That they are. Stubborn rat, I believe."

"Mordecai Booker."

"Ah, the rat king, then." Charlie drew a long breath, exhaling determinedly. "Well, I hate him, but ya been spying on Quinn, so..."

"I can only give you my word that I am on Mr. Quinn's side. You can take it or not." The man in black smiled and stepped around the chair to untie Charlie. "Now come. Let's get something to eat. The little rat's fast asleep still right now. Once he's awake there's urgent and important work to do."

Again Charlie looked around, rubbing his wrists and resting his eye on Murphy and Riley. "Not much o' a choice I'm havin', innit?"

"Not really."

—

"They're mad," Caleb murmured as Seán finished delivering the news.

Bridge snorted a half-laugh. "We figured as much." Then he shook his head. "As if the smoke from the shots wouldn't be enough already."

"They'll kinda have the control over it that way," Caleb said, before lowering his head in thought. "Wish we'd have the time t' comb the forest of other stacks."

"You and me both, Quinn." Bridge sighed softly and looked back at Seán. "Thank you, O'Brian."

"Won't say again this coulda been easier had ya not shot Tommy, but..."

Bridge waved him off. "I know I made a mistake, an' I'm not above admitting to it. I wish him a fast recov'ry. Incidentally, how are _my_ men?"

Seán grinned. "Hobbs an' Simonsen? Still massively hung over from whatever Miss Josie gave'm."

With a sour look in Caleb's direction Bridge wrinkled his nose. "That Miss McKee is a beast." There was some form of admiration in his tone.

Caleb cackled. "That she is." He turned his attention to Seán. "Know what, ya go an' ride down to the loggin' camp and help Maddox an' the others with preparing it for the oncoming battle."

Seán nodded. "Will do. Boss?"

"Mhn?"

"Are ya worried?"

Caleb pressed his lips into a thin line. "This is a bit bigger than anythin' we ever dealt with, that's for certain. I'd be a bloody fool if I wasn't."

Again Seán nodded. For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something else, but instead he turned and left.

Several minutes passed by in silence, before Bridge spoke up. "What are you worried about most, Quinn?"

"I'm in the middle of figuring that out meself." Caleb shook his head morosely .

Bridge nodded. "Problem at hand first then. How many Pinkertons do you think we'll face?"

"Hard to tell. What with that gunpowder plot o' theirs... Either they _are_ hoping we'll shoot each other in the chaos, or they are far fewer than what they expect our numbers to be."

"Probably."

Caleb sat back and began chewing his lower lip in thought. "Yer tryin' to make a new plan?"

"No, we're good."

"How's movin' camp going?"

"Decently. Coulda done without that storm, but..." Bridge ran a hand over his hair with a sigh. "We'll be on our way to a new location by tomorrow morning. Well, half of my boys."

"I take it there's still no chance yer gonna tell me where ya movin'?" Caleb grinned from ear to ear.

"In your dreams, Quinn." Bridge grinned back however. "You put me behind bars once already, I won't have that happen twice."

"In yer dreams, Bridge."

The two men sat in silence for a moment after that, both sunken in thought.

"You don't think this'll end well?" Bridge finally asked quietly, rubbing his hands.

"I dunno. I really dunno." Caleb sighed, slowly sitting up. "But I learned not to underestimate situations like this. I mean, I nearly lost me leg, an' I did lose a lot o' good friends to being reckless."

"You mean the Glenvale Massacre?"

Caleb nodded. "Yes. So, truth be told, I trust in you an' yer man to be a match for some fuckin' Pinkerton Agents, but..."

"You think they got something up their sleeve?"

Caleb hesitated before he answered. He leaned forward, locking eyes with Bridge.

"Don't you?" he inquired darkly.

—

It took Seán a while til he arrived at the old logging camp, and the sight sent a shiver down his spine. The old camp laid in a long basin, surrounded almost entirely by steep, rugged rock faces. Caleb and Maddox had both noted it first: Whatever the Pinkerton Agents were planning, it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 _More like dropping a stick of dynamite in a fish barrel_ , Seán thought grimly upon seeing the sight for himself. His gaze wandered skywards. If the night tomorrow would be as clear as this one... He didn't know if this was good or bad.

"How's the movin' going?" Maddox' voice ripped Seán from his thoughts, and Seán dismounted as the other man approached.

"As well as a haphazard move of an entire camp o' outlaws can go."

Maddox frowned in concern, shaking his head.

"How's things goin' here?" Seán asked, not trying to change the topic, but rather to get cards on the table.

"Similar. We're doing what we can, but..." Maddox shook his head. "Ev'ryone's worried." He looked over the camp, watching the men prepare the battlefield as well as the limited time and resources they had allowed. "They know a lot o' them will die tomorrow." He scowled in dismay. "I don't like this."

"That's a given. Anyone who'd like this kind o' prospect..." Seán shook his head and sat down on a log nearby, tilting his head. "Or is it 'cause it's a bit too familiar?"

Maddox sat down next to him, gently but inquiringly quirking a brow. "How d'ya mean?" Then things clicked, and he shook his head. "No. What we told you 'bout... that was different." He scowled again, darker this time. "This is... I don't know. It's a goddamn mess, that's the only thing I know. And to tell the truth, I ain't seeing much of a chance this will actually work out."

Seán pondered this for a moment, looking over the scene, before he harrumphed somberly. "Ya wanna know what yer problem is? Yes, yer trying to see how things can work out, but yer sittin' there, lookin' at things through them eyes o' Arthur Morgan or... whatever it was again. This' a problem Owen Maddox will have to deal with, so ya gotta screw yer head back on right an' look at things through his eyes."

Maddox gave him a long cold look, then snorted a quiet laugh after gazing over the scene as well. "Maybe yer right."

"O' course I am." Seán grinned. Then he stood up, took the reins of his horse and began a careful descend into the basin, Maddox on his heels.

"The name's right, by the by," Maddox noted, "Guess you gotta get one of me names right on the first try."

"Oh tut," Seán pouted, "Only got 'Owen Maddox' wrong the first time cause that thing at Hangman's Gulch was chaotic enough already, an' then _you_ showed up outta nowhere. Memorable entrance, but not much of a situation to memorize a name on the first try."

"Ah, yeah. That was pure chaos back then. Didn't some of O'Hearn's folks end up with us out of sheer confusion?"

"Sure did." Seán grinned broadly again. "An' as for that name: it helps havin' heard it before."

With one big step Maddox was at Seán's side, squinting at him suspiciously. "And what's that supposed to mean now?"

Seán donned a mask of innocence. "Remember the friend in Kelly's gang I told ya 'bout? The one with 'em horses I gots a job for in Iowa? That's yer Kieran. We found him in a tree." And he left it that, greeting some of the men working.

It was going to be a long night.

—

Miss Catherine had taken the day off. She had already expected to be rattled at the thought of what would be going on over in Copperwood this evening, but the level with which she had been feeling unwell upon waking hit her like a punch to the stomach.

And it had not surprised her to see Finley not faring any better.

The boy was sitting in the hotel's lobby like grief personified when Miss Catherine found him. Now, 'found' was the wrong word; as a colleague had told her Finley was there, and she figured he might have been looking for her.

Thus here they were now, sitting together in one of the smaller sitting rooms adjacent to the lobby, Finley wrapped in a blanket, and Miss Catherine patching up his shirt.

"Don't mind if I ask," she asked softly, "but is worrying your clothes till they tear a bad habit?"

Finley nodded sadly. "Only when I'm really scared an' nervous... and I mean..."

Miss Catherine smiled gently, sympathetic. "This is a horrible situation, and everyone who says differently is a liar or doesn't care." She finished patching the shirt and handed it back to Finley before she sat back. "Can I ask you something?"

Finley looked up while he was still pulling the shirt back on.

"Why did you come here?" Miss Catherine asked. "I mean, I can see you need someone to talk to, but, and don't mind me saying this, it's a bit weird you'd pick me over the others."

With a heavy sigh Finley scratched the back of his neck, looking down. "Didn't have much of a plan, ma'am. I just needed someone to talk to, like you said, an' I been wanderin' 'round town. Ev'ryone seemed busy, though. Matthews' busy in his smithy, Miss Josie is doin' the saloon's accounts or something..." then Finley looked up, alarmed. "That... that ain't to say yer some sorta 'last choice' or something; I..."

Miss Catherine laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You're worried. That's understandable. And before you start blaming yourself again: what happened is not your fault. While I don't know Mr. Quinn very well, I do believe he can get himself out of this. Maybe worse for wear, but I'm certain. He's cunning an' stubborn. Don't you think he'll find a way to get his bacon out of the fire?"

With another sigh Finley sat back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "I... I think... I mean, yeah. He's stubborn, but we all is. An'... I think only Seán's worse in that regard, and he's there too..."

Miss Catherine chuckled and gave Finley's arm a soft squeeze. "See?"

"I'm just really worried. What with them Pinks, and that lawyer an' all... What's goin' on, ma'am?"

"I wish I knew." Miss Catherine shook her head and carefully got up, patting Finley on the shoulder. "Come, I don't think any of us had breakfast yet, and it won't do trying to solve a puzzle of this caliber on an empty stomach."

"I don't think I can eat anythin' right now," Finley murmured, abashed, yet rubbing his stomach.

"Neither can I," Miss Catherine responded softly, "But we both ought to."

"I know... but..." Finley scuffed his shoes against the ground, worrying the freshly mended shirt again. Miss Catherine sighed and laid a hand on his arm.

"Let's go for a walk then," she said, and the boy nodded.

"It's... sad," Finley began after they had walked in silence for a while. "Not what's with Mr. Quinn. I... I mean that too, but that's more frightenin' than sad. I mean the town. It's... It... it feels weird how no one seems to care 'bout what's happening."

"Most don't know, Finley. And I think those that know do care." Miss Catherine pondered. "I won't lie, there are some that know and seem relieved about it."

"Yeah, we didn't really build up that good a reputation..." Finley scratched the back of his neck and kicked at the ground, before suddenly stopping in his tracks and standing up straight, alarmed. Miss Catherine looked at him inquiringly, and Finley nodded his head at a man standing at the back of a nearby building, checking his watch impatiently. It was Mr. Hodgeson.

"That's the lawyer, isn't it?" Miss Catherine hushed, and Finley confirmed, before shuffling behind some crates and edging closer. Miss Catherine followed.

"You're gonna listen in?" she whispered.

"If this guy's lookin' like that, there's trouble brewin'."

"Figures."

The two had just gotten within hearing range as another man came up the other way, very out of breath and looking abundantly apologetic.

"Not a chance," the man began. "They'd all wanna know what we're transporting."

"Bugger." Hodgeson shook his head. "And the blacksmith?"

"He won't ask questions 'bout the cargo, but he's been one of Quinn's men."

Hodgeson chuckled. "Well, ain't that poetic justice then? Get the wagons fixed and then hurry. The clock's ticking."

The man nodded hastily and ran off. Hodgeson checked his watch again, shook his head and left the scene.

Finley swallowed dryly.

"The blacksmith," Miss Catherine began, "That was Mr. Matthews, right?"

Finley nodded, brows furrowed. "We should talk to him."

"I guess we should."

—

"By the by," the man in black began as he finally led Charlie upstairs after a good sleep and some quick breakfast filled with sour glares from Riley and Murphy. "What is your business with those two? They seem eager to tear you limb from limb."

"I robbed them blind in a game o' Faro," Charlie admitted nonchalantly. "And then again in a game o' poker just two months after."

The man quirked a brow. "That's all? I mean..."

"It's not my fault they don't learn from their mistakes." Charlie shrugged. "Well, that's the part they're pissed 'bout in an embarrassed way, at least."

"What's the furious way about then?"

"Me makin' certain the cops in Chicago think them two robbed _me_ blind."

"You mean _tried_ to rob you blind."

"Oh, no, no. _Robbed_ me blind. Had to get 'em off my tail, hadn't I?" Charlie sighed gently. "I think had Kelly not gotten them out o' jail then, they'd have swung."

The man in black nodded. "Well, that _is_ a reason to be vengeful."

"I still think Murphy's more bitter 'bout the lost money. Dunno how well ya know him, but before that he prided himself with his skill with cards."

"So I heard." The man nodded wistfully and pulled a keyring from his coat, unlocking the door at the end of the corridor. "I also heard you couldn't win a game of Patience without cheating."

"That's why I don't try. We all gotta know our strengths and weaknesses." At this Charlie's gaze fell on the man in the bed. It was Booker alright, and while Charlie had the fortune of not having had a brush with him too often, he knew the cautionary tales well enough. Though right now, Booker was in pain, that much was obvious (marginally helped with by a dose of morphine, judging by the items on the nightstand,) and squirming with a fever. "An advice that he should take to heart, I'd say."

The man in black smiled, turning up the gaslight just a little bit.

"I dunno if yer expectin' me to feel sorry for 'im," Charlie began, settling down on a chair by the bed. "He decided to work with 'em Pinkertons."

The man in black nodded. "And Kelly, selling everyone out just the same."

"So, what exactly is it ya want from him?"

"I need to know whom the Pinkertons are working for. And what was in those crates." The man in black made a dismissive gesture. "In short, I need to figure out what is going on."

Charlie simply quirked a brow. "Huh, ain't that funny? I got the impression ya gots that information already."

"Alas, I don't." The man in black shook his head. "I thought I did, but that was before the unpleasant interlude with Van Laren and then the Pinkertons. I suspect Kelly knows something important, but he's become quite elusive lately."

Charlie pondered this. "So ya got Murphy and Riley in hopes to lead ya to Kelly somehow?"

"Did your friends on the other side tell you this? If so, I'm impressed."

With a satisfied little smile Charlie folded his hands. "Part and part. Me contacts aren't known for talkin' turkey, so a lot is guesswork. Like, they never yet revealed who ya are or what yer really up to. It woulda saved me some time. And I wouldn't have run afoul of ya."

The response was a quite wicked grin. "Can you be certain of that?"

"No. But that's what ya gotta expect when you got me talents." Charlie's face darkened. "Now, on the notion of 'talkin' turkey'... Ya been pretty secretive 'round Murphy an' Riley, maybe for good reason, maybe not. But I think now that it's just the two o' us and Booker here, ya might wanna come clean with what ya know and what exactly ya want. And who you are."

The man in black sighed heavily, running a hand over his short hair. "I can't tell you. Yet. I can only ask you to trust me." He stretched his hands as Charlie scoffed dubiously. "I am trying to help Mr. Quinn. That's all I can say."

Charlie scowled. "Ya know, I don't think Booker will wake any time soon. An' the whole mess is set to happen this evenin'. Whatever information he's got, it won't be much help to Quinn."

"I'm aware. But I'm certain I'll be able to get to him sooner or later, as I _do_ know they want Quinn alive for some reason."

"Good. As much as I delight in speakin' with the dead, I'd prefer not t' have that be me way of chatting with Quinn from here on."

"I'm certain he'd appreciate the sentiment."

"Any idea _why_ they wants him alive yet they pull this shite?" Charlie folded his hands, index fingers stretched out and resting against his lips in thought. "'Cause that's the part I can't make heads nor tails off."

"I can only guess, Mr. Mulligan. But due to the business with Van Laren, I suspect it might have to do with another person I am looking for. Someone who, like Quinn, has gotten into the crosshairs of the person I am working _against_."

"And who would that be? Both of these, I mean."

The man in black took a deep breath as if he had to gather some courage before he could answer. "The man I am working against is none other than Henry Bayshore. Or someone carrying out his will." He looked at Charlie expectantly. "You wouldn't happen to know if old Bayshore is dead for good?"

"Unfortunately I don't. It's what I said 'bout me contacts not havin' much of a thing for giving clear information."

The man looked disappointed. "Well, legally he _is_ dead. As for the other person... I believe you have heard of Christopher Wallace by now?"

Charlie nodded.

"Good," said the man in black. "You see, for reasons I have yet to uncover, Bayshore has been searching far and wide for this Mr. Wallace. For almost seven years now. I don't think it is a coincidence someone has put Quinn on Mr. Wallace's trail."

Charlie's eye twitched. "Now ain't that curious..."

"What is?"

"My good man," Charlie smiled lazily, "I think ya just gave away who you are."

—

"Didn't expect ya to come here, Finn," Matthews greeted, before nodding politely at Miss Catherine. "And yer bringing lovely company. How ya doin', miss?"

"Could be better, truth be told," Miss Catherine answered.

"Sir, have ya recently gotten some wagons in to repair?" Finley blurted out. Matthews blinked at him and quirked a brow.

"Aye. Just gotten in three at once. Them wants me t' fix at least one 'fore noon." He tilted his head and crossed his arms. "What's the matter?"

Finley told him. Matthews' face went sour.

"That was them Pinkertons?" He spat at the ground. "Ah, shoulda known something's fishy with how they been acting." He shook his head. "Oughta just stop working on things."

"Then they'd know that we know and..." Finley winced. Matthews laid a broad hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I know. Don't worry, lad." Matthews cocked his head, withdrawing the hand and crossing his arms again. He hummed in thought, before looking towards the door leading to the yard behind the building. "There's five of 'em out there guardin' their cargo."

"What?" Finley yelped.

Matthews hushed him. "Tell ya what happened: They came here 'bout an or so hour ago, three out o' five wagons broken. Had the last one packed with ev'rythin'. I'm surprised it didn't break down as well on the way here. Them's been pretty evasive when I asked where they were headin' and shite." He grunted. "Begorra, shoulda known."

"Well, you couldn't," Miss Catherine said. "Glenvale has become a common stop for people heading out to either side of the country."

Matthews smiled softly and nodded. "Aye. True, miss. Anyway, they unloaded ev'rything but two of 'em massive crates, an' about two devil's dozen or so left with that. Hell knows where, but now I guess it's clear..."

"...they're heading to the old loggin' camp," Finley finished, color draining from his face.

Another nod from Matthews. "Most of 'em others left to wile away the time in town. But there's still five of 'em here, armed t' the teeth an' guarding those crates like they contain all o' the gold in the nation."

Finley now looked close to fainting, clawing at his hair. "That's my fault..." he sobbed. Only for Miss Catherine to gently nudge him towards a barrel nearby and do all she could to calm him down once he had sat down on it.

"No, it's not," she finally said, sternly. "This is a vile plan, but _you_ didn't make it, Finley. I want you to take a deep breath and then try to think of what to do now."

Finley whimpered softly, fidgeting, but taking one, two deep breaths and coughing slightly. "We... we... Do you know what's in them crates?"

"No. Tobias was overseeing things when they unloaded them wagons... I can only say that they's hea-..." Matthews trailed off and paled. "They wouldn't," he whispered, voice cracking. "I know them Pinks got a reputation but they... they wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what?" Finley and Miss Catherine asked in unison.

"Finn, ya know I fought in the war... I've seen some shite... I think I know what's in them crates..."

Miss Catherine and Finley exchanged worried glances, before looking back at Matthews, waiting for him to answer the unspoken question of 'What?'.

Matthews gulped. "Gatlings. Fuckin' Gatlings."

—

Late morning passed into a fading afternoon.

The atmosphere in the old logging camp was as tense as one might expect, and it was an open secret that everyone felt like they were laying hogtied on a silver platter.

Bridge was currently busy giving a speech in front of his men, praising them for their good work in preparing the site, trying to lift people's spirits.

"Credit where it's due," Caleb murmured to Seán and Maddox, "He's good at giving speeches."

The two men nodded in agreement, Maddox' face sour, however.

"Still don't like this." His eyes wandered along the edge of the cliffs.

"Ya did what ya could," Caleb said, looking around as well. "Ya covered most of the paths, so gettin' here t' begin with..."

"You think we didn't cover enough?" Maddox grimaced.

"So do you, dontcha?" Caleb shook his head, wearily. "Not to speak o' the devil, but between half the gang leavin' for yer new camp, things getting done here an' now... there's a bit o' time to slip past us."

Maddox just nodded, shaking his head with an odd bitter hope.

"At least I think we got all the spots for snipers taken care of," Caleb noted, in a tone matching Maddox' expression.

The sun began setting just as Bridge finished his speech, coming back over to the trio.

"Now we wait." Behind him the men took cover, most at least. Some took position nearby, giving off the impression of guarding Caleb. Caleb himself gave a nod to Seán to get out of sight.

Up on the cliffs, shadows edge closer to the basin's edge. About two dozen men, all armed and all none too-certain as to what to expect.

Well, whatever it was they might have been expecting, it certainly wasn't what they were seeing in the basin below.

Kelly lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. "Are ya kiddin' me?" He murmured, looking questioningly at his companion crouching next to him. He brought the binoculars up again, shaking his head. "That's Bridge, innit?"

"In the flesh, boss," the man answered matter-of-factly, voice nevertheless tinged with confusion.

Kelly put the contraption away, growling. "Ten-a-penny outlaws, me arse." He brought his fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle.

Down in the logging camp, people turned, some of the men readying their weapons. Kelly rose, holding his hands up to show good intentions.

"Mason Kelly," Caleb murmured sourly, and turned to Bridge. "I thought we was dealin' with the fuckin' Pinks."

Bridge couldn't do much more than shrug, clueless. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"I'm coming down," Kelly called. "Don't shoot."

Bridge's men still kept their weapons at the ready, as Kelly and a few of his gang descended the steep slope leading down to the camp.

"Now what —an' I bleedin' hope ya fuckers got an answer to that— am I lookin' at here?" Kelly stopped about five steps away from the little group, one thumb hooked into his belt, the other hand resting on his hip.

"You tell us." Bridge was the quickest to answer.

Kelly cocked his head. "Well, at least Quinn's here," he eyed Caleb up and down, before his eyes flitted back to Bridge. "Didn't expect ya of all people to work with the fuckin' Pinkertons willingly."

Bridge's face went sour. "Excuse you?"

"I heard some ten-a-penny gang o' outlaws kidnapped Quinn to hand him to the Pinks."

"Ten-a-penny..." Bridge harrumphed, insulted. "Ah, we're not working with 'em 'willingly'. We didn't know this Lynwood was a Pinkerton Agent when we agreed to the job. Now, why are _you_ here?"

"Because I need Quinn, much to me dismay. An' I been told whoever gots him will be meetin' up with the Pinkertons here an' now."

"Who told you..." Bridge stopped, narrowing his eyes at Kelly, who mirrored the glance. Then their eyes went wide.

"Take cover!" Bridge bellowed, just as the first shot rang out, hitting one of Kelly's men up on the ledge square in the back.

The rest of Kelly's men either skidded down the slope or dove for cover alongside the cliff's edge, opening fire on the Pinkertons that now revealed themselves in the dense undergrowth behind them.

Cries rang out on both sides, some speaking of injury, others —the cut-off ones— of death as smoke from the fired shots began engulfing the basin.

Seán had managed to take cover alongside Maddox, looking around and swearing profoundly.

"How the fuckin' hell did they manage that?" he muttered between taking out two opponents.

"It's them damn woods," Maddox responded, reloading his rifle. "I thought you believed in them stories 'bout them."

"I do. I had hoped the one 'bout people just vanishing would come true for those fuckers." He grinned askew. "Heh, just a few hours ago I wondered if them woods had swallowed some o' our men... Guess it's more likely those sons of bitches got 'em in an ambush."

Maddox smiled wryly. "Good to know you can talk sense."

"Ah, shut it." Seán barely dodged a bullet, shifting his position behind the cover and daring to look around. "Something's wrong..."

Tensing up Maddox nodded. Something _was_ wrong. From what he could see there were several dozens of opponents, outnumbering the people in the logging camp maybe three to one. And yet the deaths down in the basin weren't many. A lot of injuries, but people were diving from cover to cover, a lot were even out in the open, some having direct fights with the few Pinkertons that had —whether voluntarily or not— made their way into the basin.

All in all, things were looking pretty well for the two outlaw gangs.

And neither Maddox nor Seán could think of a worse estimation of the situation at this early point.

Neither could Caleb. Bridge had been dragging him along towards them, diving for cover when necessary and blowing down opponents in their way. Things were going too well.

Caleb gritted his teeth, looking around, eyes wandering to the hills and ledges surrounding the logging camp. Every fiber of his being screamed at him that this was about to get worse.

Bridge noticed the hesitation, and his face darkened in worry. "What?"

Then the last light of day glinted off something high above them and Caleb felt his heart sink.

"Gatlings!" he shouted in warning. "They got Gatlings! Get down!"

A few of the men around him were fast enough to heed the warning immediately, and managed to take better cover when the rapid gunfire began. Others, who had not been so quick on the uptake managed to do so with severe injuries... or were in no need of any cover, ever again.

"Guess we _did_ miss some spots where they could put that kinda shite," Caleb murmured dryly after Bridge pulled him into one of the cabins for cover.

"We didn't expect these sons of bitches to have Gatlings, did we?" Bridge muttered a string of curses and checked his guns. "We got to get rid of them."

"Finally there's a good plan."

"Stop mocking me, Quinn." Bridge grunted, gritting his teeth as a shot from one of the snipers pinged off the window's ledge just an inch above him. "Yes, I am pointing out the obvious, but we can't fight Lynwood's men as long as it's raining bullets."

Caleb smiled wryly. "Had ya not beaten me into a fuckin' pulp I'd be of more help now."

"I know, I know." Bridge grit his teeth, shaking his head again. "Guess we know why they were shooting so badly."

"Yeah, they tried to make us feel safe. Wankers."

That moment Kelly dove into the cabin, huddling behind the sacks by the window. "Been wonderin' where ya went."

"Funny." Caleb nagged.

"They got three Gatlings. Two men at each," Kelly noted almost conversationally, even though the speed of his breath betrayed the relaxed exterior. "One handlin' the gun, one with a rifle."

Caleb and Bridge nodded.

"At least ya bring decent news for once," Caleb noted, hazarding a glance out of their hiding spot. "Ya sure only one guy's armed?"

Kelly nodded. "From what I saw."

"Can you two still run as fast as I remember?"

Bridge was the first to catch on. "You want us to take'm out?"

Caleb nodded morosely . "Ain't got much of a choice; we're closest to them. With just two people up on each gun, they both gotta see 'bout the reloading. And they opened fire at the same time."

"So they'll run out of ammo simultaneously," Bridge agreed. "Time enough to run up an' shoot them. Maybe."

"Can't say I likes the 'maybe' in that," Kelly mumbled, reloading his rifle. "This is lunacy, Quinn."

"Ya gots a better plan, Kelly?" Caleb inclined his head toward the camp outside. "Boys got enough trouble with them other Pinkertons. Not one of'em could run up before he gets gunned down. We're a bit in their blind spots here, an' all this shootin' is doing a pretty good job cov'ring the area in smoke."

"Now imagine if those bastards still had their stacks of gun powder..." Bridge murmured sourly, then grunted decidedly. "Quinn's right, we can try or wait for them Pinkertons to mow our boys down and then come for us."

"I like the sound o' that even less than the 'maybe'." Kelly grimaced bitterly.

"Of course they'll catch on the moment the first bastard at the Gatling goes down." Bridge added, and looked at Caleb. "If it helps anything, I _am_ regretting having my boys break your arm."

Caleb grinned sourly. "'Twasn't one o' yer best plans." He looked at Kelly. "Ready?"

Kelly nodded, and Caleb closed his eyes, counting silently. The hail of bullets died down, and immediately Kelly and Bridge jumped up, rushing out of the cabin and diving from cover to cover.

A stone's throw away, Maddox and Seán had found decent cover behind one of the makeshift fortifications. Seán was currently seeing to one of Bridge's men who had managed to drag himself there after the Pinkertons revealed the ace up their sleeves.

"Ya gonna lose that arm, mate," Seán said, patching up the wounds the best he could. "But yer gonna live."

Next to him, Maddox hazarded a grim glance at the two, before looking down his rifle again and taking down two Pinkertons in quick succession. "How many of those bastards are there?" he grunted, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Know what? I'm starting t' think that's not just Pinkertons we're facing," Seán said, picking up his own rifle again.

And immediately lowering it.

"What the hell?" he breathed. The fire from the Gatlings had stopped, and Seán watched; with onsetting and rapidly growing panic as Bridge and Kelly burst out of one of the cabins, heading towards the Gatling closest to them.

"Are they out of their goddamn _minds_?" Maddox shouted, spinning around to see if any of their opponents had noticed what was happening.

"Yeah, but we knew that," Seán noted. "Let's give 'em some backin'."

"You're reading my mind, O'Brian."

Luck was on Bridge and Kelly's side up until the first man at the Gatling went down. They had made their way from the cabin unscathed, noticing at the edge of their vision how many of their men had their backs, but it was exactly that circumstance that now came around and bit them in the arse. They managed to clear one of the infernal machines (alongside some Pinkertons on the way; for God's sakes, how many of them were there?), only to find themselves in a spot that left them open to the other Gatlings as well as a handful of their opponents, without much leeway for their own men. There were only a few rocks and logs to take cover behind, and those wouldn't last long.

Close by, from behind more decent cover, a couple of Pinkerton Agents got cocky, rising from behind the rocks and taking aim at Bridge and Kelly.

The two exchanged a look that begrudgingly; seeming to say 'Nice knowing you', when a couple of bullets whistled just over their shoulders, tearing skin and fabric before striking their opponents right in the head and chest.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Bridge looked around to see just who had saved them.

Caleb gave him a cheerful wave before ducking back down behind the window, and Kelly had the good sense to pull Bridge to safety alongside the dead Pinkertons. A knife flashed in the pale moonlight as Kelly made sure they were — indeed — dead Pinkertons.

"Was that Quinn?" Kelly asked, out of breath. Bridge just nodded, pressing a hand on his bleeding shoulder.

"Sometimes I wonder if that bastard's even human. Ya alright there?" 

Kelly muttered unintelligibly in answer, and checked his weapons.

"It's just a scratch. Stings, but that's it."

"How many of those fuckers are there, anyway?"

"Too many. And they'll have the Gatlings ready again any moment now," Bridge noted, lips pressed into a thin, stressed line as he looked around.

"At least we went down with a good fight."

"Giving up?"

"I'd love not to, but," Kelly hissed as a bullet barely missed his head. "But it's one thing, fightin' against men with guns an' explosives, an' another..." He left the rest unspoken. "Any chance we can still take 'em out?"

"They'll have caught on now, and..."

 _Boom_

Kelly gave Bridge a baffled look and dared to hazard a glance. Whatever just happened, the battlefield that the logging camp had become was filling with smoke much faster than it should have, all things considered.

"Guess there's the barrels we didn't..." Bridge began, but stopped in surprise as the men on the remaining Gatlings fell down dead in short succession. He and Kelly exchanged another baffled glance, which only grew more bewildered as they spotted who was responsible for it:

Not too far away, a horse was dashing through the thickening smoke, mounted by two riders. One was a woman currently reloading a rifle, the other...

"Isn't that Quinn's boy?" Kelly voiced what he and Bridge were thinking.

"Quinn would protest the kid isn't," Bridge said dryly. "But yes."

"Well, this whole mess's already shapin' up to be a fuckin' dime-novel, so, woohoo, here comes the cavalry."

Over at where Seán and Maddox had taken cover, the reaction to the sight was similar.

"Begorra," Seán muttered, watching things unfold. "I'd have said Finn's the last person I expected comin' to our rescue, but he gone and brought Miss Catherine..."

"Kid's full of surprises."

"They both are." Seán shook his head and cast a quick glance around before shouldering his rifle and sprinting towards the nearest ledge. Maddox needed a moment to catch on, and with an aggravated grunt and an eye roll, he gave Seán the backing he needed to scale the cliff towards the lonely Gatling.

What followed was chaos. Seán swung the weapon around, watching in glee as a good number of Pinkertons turned tail and fled before he even began firing.

But one flank cleared wasn't a battle won.

At the edge of their vision, Bridge and Kelly noticed Finley and Miss Catherine dismounting; the boy sending the horse running before he dove into the fog, a knife in his hand.

"I'll see 'bout the woman," Kelly barked, moving to run off. "You see 'bout stoppin' our men from shootin' each other in this shite." And he was off. Bridge nodded and looked around, just as the Pinkertons descended into the fog like an avalanche.

Now fewer shots than screams rang through the night, and the stench of death began; noticeable mix with the sting of gunpowder. All around people were shouting; some orders, some for help, some just cursing at God and the world in general, others even praying.

Maddox dove into the cabin with Caleb, frantically looking around for Bridge. The thick gunpowder smoke mixed with the dim light of night might have been a blessing against the Pinkertons, but it was an outright curse when you were the one trying to spot anyone yourself.

"Seen Bridge?" Maddox panted.

"No. Where's Miss Catherine?"

"With Kelly, takin' cover at the far end o' the camp."

Caleb nodded, when a cry sounded from nearby. He looked, and grimaced. "Shit!" He nodded towards their left.

Just a couple of paces away, the moonlight breaking through the clearing, smoke showed Lynwood looming over Bridge. By the looks of it, he'd been hit in the leg and was trying to crawl to where his weapon had fallen.

"My client wanted you alive," Lynwood said calmly, but loud enough to be audible to Caleb and Maddox, cocking his gun. "It's a real sha-"

The rest was cut off as something tore through the thick smoke with a feral roar, tackling Lynwood to the ground.

Caleb's eyes went wide as he recognized Finley in a state he had never seen the boy in before. A state, however, he knew he himself was in all too often. Vengeful rage was written all over the boy's face, teeth bared, breath quickened as he slashed at the Pinkerton agent below him.

"Do you remember me?" Finley screamed, scratching and tearing at Lynwood's face with his free hand. "Ya remember me? Ya came into our home! Ya killed me mum! Our friends! And ya made me watch! I was four! And ya made! Me! Watch!"

Finley let out a roar, stabbing at Lynwood's face, fingers digging into the man's skin to smash his head against the ground, when a shot rang out.

Caleb felt his heart stop and an icy lump plummet into his stomach at what he saw. Lynwood had his revolver pressed against Finley's stomach. The boy fell sideways without a word, eyes wide. The knife dropped and Lynwood rose, his face more blood and cuts than a face at all, yet he stared down at Finley in disgust and wicked amusement.

And raised his revolver again.

Caleb jumped up, noticing at the edge of his perception that Maddox had done so too, when pain drilled through his body, bringing him back to the ground. Maddox stopped in reflex, looking at him, and Caleb stared helplessly at Lynwood.

_Clack_

Time seemed frozen.

_Clack_

Lynwood cursed. There wasn't a single bullet left in the gun.

_Bang_

Caleb flinched involuntarily as a shot fired after all. Then Lynwood staggered back, hand on his side and blood pouring out between his fingers, staring at Bridge who had gotten hold of his six shooter. With what could best be described as an expression of betrayal directed at the world in general, Lynwood gave the group a glare, before he turned tail and vanished into the smoke.

The gunfire died down entirely, replaced by cries and shouts as Bridge's and Kelly's men gave chase to the fleeing Pinkertons.

To Caleb, all the sounds were just one deafening roar as he stared at Finley, before getting up and staggering towards the fallen boy.

Only at the edge of his vision did he notice people moving around him, maybe noticed that his side had won, but he didn't care anymore. He felt cold. There was a part of his brain desperately trying to get angry, vengeful, but he couldn't. He just felt cold. Numb. He glanced at Finley again, now hidden from view by Seán and some of Bridge's men surrounding the boy.

Caleb let out a ragged breath... and turned away.

Maddox found him sitting on a log at the edge of the logging camp not long after the smoke had cleared, staring blankly at the ground. He stopped a few steps away, drawing a breath to speak, but Caleb spoke up first.

"Whatever ya got t'say, I don't wanna hear it." His voice was hoarse and strained, and Maddox could tell Caleb was biting back sobs. Still he edged closer, biting his lips as he saw Caleb's face.

"Go away, Maddox," Caleb snarled. Maddox didn't move, and Caleb drew his revolver. "I said _go away_." He didn't shoot, couldn't shoot, his hand shaking far too much to have the slightest bit of control. His arm dropped, his whole frame now shivering, and he turned away. Maddox hesitated before he sat down next to Caleb.

"He'll be fine," he said bluntly. "Your kid, I mean."

Caleb's head shot up. "What?" he croaked.

"Well, not fine; he'll have to recover first. But he's alive."

"Don't... don't lie to me 'bout that." Caleb looked as if he couldn't decide who he was angry at. His breath was ragged, and now that Maddox got a good look at him it was clear that Caleb had been crying.

"Not joking. O'Brian and that Miss O'Malley are bringing him and Bridge to Glenvale."

Caleb just stared at the other man blankly. "He's... he's alive?"

"That Lynwood got 'im good, but not good enough." Maddox grinned briefly. "Heh, guess he's got yer brand o' luck as well."

"But... I saw him... He..."

"The shock from the shot," Maddox said quietly. "He's been bleeding somewhat, but... I've seen worse. Had worse. Some o' it on your hands." He searched Caleb's eyes. "Are you okay? This really got to you."

"Lot to take in. I... I never... Finley... he..."

"He's your kid, o'course you'll feel diff'rent 'bout seeing him die. Or at least thinking he's dead."

Caleb hummed sadly. "He's..."

"Not your kid," Maddox groaned and rolled his eyes. "I know, but, for God's sake, Quinn. I know people joke 'bout it, but even if the boy ain't yer kid by blood, you're still seeing him as such." Maddox rose his hand to stop Caleb's protest. "And don't try to tell me otherwise. That lie won't work. You don't believe it yourself, either."

For a long moment Caleb said nothing and just stared at the ground, flexing his good hand. "He'll be fine?" He asked quietly.

"I won't tell you it's for certain, that'd be cruel. It's still quite a ride to Glenvale. But if your Doc Yeung can work one of the miracles I hear so much about..." He sighed. "But Finley's alive, and you can bet O'Brian will do ev'rything to make sure the kid survives."

Caleb thought about this for a moment, before nodding quietly and swallowing dryly. "And Bridge?"

Maddox grinned. "Lynwood got him in the leg and the hindquarters. He'll be a right pain in the arse for a couple of days." He paused. "The pun's intended."

The two shared a curt, quite strained chuckle, before Caleb shook his head. "And the Pinkertons?"

"Didn't get them all. Lynwood will hopefully bleed out tryin' to find his way through Copperwood Grove."

"Hope he gets eaten by a bear or somethin' before that happens."

"The poor bear." Maddox shook his head with a heartfelt sigh. "This is a goddamn mess."

Caleb just nodded quietly. "What's yer plan now?"

"Bury our dead. Burn the dead Pinkertons, melt their badges down to something actually useful. Cutlery or something." Maddox grinned askew. "An' then change camp again. Maybe head down to Louisiana..."

With a long, tired look Caleb gazed at him, saying nothing. Maddox got the hint.

"Guess Bridge an' I will stay behind."

"I need ya in this, whether any o' us likes it or not." Caleb looked up and around. "Where's Kelly? I wanna know why the fuck he showed up."

"Rode off. Some of his men are still here, helping. But Kelly? He rode off."

Caleb sneered, but Maddox shook his head.

"Shoulda seen the glint in his eyes, Quinn. There's something urgent, and I'd bet it's tied to this mess."

"Woulda been nice if that son o' a bitch woulda said so." Caleb rolled his eyes, wincing briefly at the pain that caused.

"Come on." Maddox got up. "I'll get you back to Glenvale. The men have their orders, an' you need to see the doctor." He held out his hand. "Guess you're stuck with us now."

With a lopsided smile Caleb took the hand and had Maddox help him to one of the wagons. "Guess so."

—

A little more than five hours later, Seán was stalking up and down in Tommy's room.

"You should sit down, Seán. Yer 'bout to keel over."

Seán stopped and looked at him. "How can ya be this calm?"

Tommy snorted a sad laugh. "Am not. Finn's like a little brother, to both o' us. Maybe it's the morphine talkin', but I knows it won't do frettin' over things like this." He sighed. "God, I hope he'll be alright."

Seán nodded and, with a heavy sigh, sat down on the bed, resting his head against Tommy's shoulder. "Am still tryin' to figure what the Hell happened. Ya shoulda seen him." He smirked. "I mean, I knows he's not Quinn's kid, but damn, that rage was absolutely akin to Quinn's."

"Yer makin' me sad I missed it," Tommy quipped before his face fell. "What d'ye think Finn meant?"

"That that Lynwood killed his mum, ain't that obvious?" Seán sighed, humming gently as Tommy caressed his hair. "We don't really know much 'bout the kid, do we?"

Tommy chewed on his lips. "No. I think we don't know anything at all 'bout him, come to think o' it."

"We know he's an orphan. An' that he ran away from the orphanage when he was six or seven."

"An' he's bloody good at pickin' an' throwin' things," Tommy noted and gave Seán's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "He'll be alright."

Seán was silent for a while, then he nodded.

"Did Miss Catherine really snipe some Pinkertons?" Tommy asked casually, and Seán broke into a broad grin.

"She sure did. Ya shoulda seen it. From horseback, no less. An' some of 'em were up on a ledge. It was amazin'."

"Now yer really makin' me sad I missed it." Tommy chuckled, planting a quick kiss on Seán's forehead. "Quinn's gonna have so many questions for the kid and Miss Catherine..." He sighed softly, and sat up carefully, pulling Seán closer. "Seán?"

"Mhnn?"

"Don't ya ever, ever again do somethin' that could get ya killed as easily as climbing up a cliff to take over a fuckin' Gatling." He squeezed Seán's shoulder, staring ahead, lips pressed together to keep them from wobbling.

Seán understood. He said nothing, just nestled his head against the crook of Tommy's neck.

—

Over at the saloon Caleb and Maddox had been sitting together in Caleb's room, sharing a bottle of whiskey throughout the night. Both men looked as if they were at the point of collapsing (which they were,) still trying to make sense of things now that the gravity of what had occurred had finally sunk in.

"Can't believe we got out of that," Maddox mumbled, nursing the bottle before handing it back to Caleb.

"Ya said so already."

"So did you."

Caleb grinned weakly, rubbing his now properly patched up arm. "An' it still don't make any bloody sense."

"Which part?"

"All of it," Caleb grunted sourly, laying back. By now they knew that the Pinkertons had a few of O'Hearn's boys amongst their numbers, which was already a bad sign. Maddox had mused on whether they had just wanted to see Bridge, Kelly, and their gangs dead for good, but Lynwood's comment on wanting Bridge alive didn't fit with that.

And the question of who hired them in the first place was still open without anything pointing in one direction or the other. Bayshore was dead, for all they knew. And the lawyer and this Mr. Harper had left the town for New Hamelin. Caleb knew he'd have several words with them, but he knew he'd have to get more pieces of this puzzle before he could do so, much to his dismay.

The entire affair had taken everything out of everyone, yet Caleb had an odd feeling he was unfamiliar with. He knew it was worry. For Finley. And for Miss Catherine. But it was a kind of worry he'd never felt before.

The whole night, he had been wrecking his brain over it, only half listening to Maddox's words. Maybe it was time to ask the other man.

"Hey, Maddox, can..." Caleb sighed and grinned as he noticed that Maddox had finally dozed off, snoring peacefully in his chair. The position he was in meant he'd be more sore than he already was, but at least he'd get some sleep. With another sigh, Caleb decided to follow the example.

It was hard to tell how long they had slept.

The sun was already up when someone knocked on the door quite insistently.

Caleb snorted awake, half due to the knocking, half due to Maddox cursing profoundly as he had lost balance in his chair upon waking up. Rubbing his back, Maddox staggered toward the door, stretching a little and giving a bewildered look to Caleb before opening it.

"Miss McKee. G'morning," Maddox greeted. Josie smiled back.

"Good morning," she said, peeking over Maddox's shoulder. "Hope the two o' ye rested well. There's somethin' ye gotta see."

Without an explanation, she left again, Maddox looking at Caleb with even more bewilderment than before. Caleb shrugged and pulled on his leg brace, stretching and doing the best he could to make himself remotely presentable.

Downstairs Josie waited at the saloon's entrance, inclining her head towards a wagon waiting in the streets.

The surprises didn't appear to have any intention of stopping.

"Murphy an' Riley," Caleb noted, watching the two men clamber off the wagon alongside Charlie and... the man in the black poncho. "Ya know..." he turned towards Charlie with a deadpan expression. "Now yer taking interactin' wi' the dead a bit too far, Charlie."

"They ain't been dead," Charlie responded. "Even though one's five senses might say dif'rently."

Behind him Murphy growled at him, but Charlie just smiled smugly.

Caleb quirked a brow. "You two keep gettin' in and outta the biggest shite unscathed. Ya really are like Kelly's version o' Seán an' Tommy."

"We ain't workin' for Kelly anymore," Murphy noted.

"Aye," Charlie added. "They're workin' for the guy who's been stalkin' ya for the last month." He nodded towards the man in the black poncho.

"Was wonderin' when I'd meet ya,'' Caleb greeted, voice tinged equally with anger, frustration and confusion. "Ya know I don't like people stalking me."

"I'm aware, Mr. Quinn. The situation forced me to resort to it, I apologise. Good to see you're alive, sir."

"Good to see me alive, yeah." Caleb frowned. "No thanks to _you_ , I think." He caught Charlie's eye. "What's with that look?"

"That's for this guy to explain, boss. But —and I dunno if ya wanna hear it— he's on yer side."

"I can't judge that yet," Caleb sneered, resting his good hand on his revolver in defiance as he turned back to the man in black. "Now, you got Charlie with ya an' he's trustin' ya. So ye'll get a chance. Who are ya? An' what are ya doin' here?"

"To answer the second question first, 'cause that's the more important one. I'm here to help. And to shine some light on other questions. Also, I come bearing gifts," he said, waving everyone over and pulling the cover off the contents of his wagon with Charlie's help.

"Booker," Maddox sneered at the neatly tied-up figure squirming there. "Why am I not surprised?"

Booker grunted against the gag in his mouth, glaring back.

"I _would_ have gotten him here earlier," the man in the black poncho said, "but Lynwood put a large caliber into his intestines that had to be removed first."

"Lynwood?" Maddox repeated, raising his brows. "As in the Pinkerton agent that nearly killed all o' us? The little rat here's been workin' with him?"

The man in the black poncho nodded. "Yes."

Maddox threw his arms up. "Why am I _not_ surprised?"

"Should have left the bullet where it is," Caleb added callously, leaning against the cart.

"Mr. Booker here has done a lot of damage. I think he should get the _chance_ to repair it." He grinned down at Booker. "And you _do_ agree with that just being fair, don't you?"

Booker strained against his bounds and grunted sourly, causing Maddox to snort a laugh before he leaned over the bound man.

"What? You're saying you're _not_ going to help?" Maddox said with a nasty grin. He leaned closer and supported himself with one hand on the other's stomach. Booker howled and groaned against the gag, struggling haplessly. "Oh, you _are_? Good." Pushing himself off with a grin that hammered home how much Maddox delighted in the other man's pain, he turned to the guy in the black poncho. "You coulda still come here and told us earlier."

"That also wasn't a possibility, unfortunately. Not just because of Mr. Booker here, but because of more dire threats," the man said.

"Oh really?" Caleb rolled his eyes. "Ya still got a lot of explaining to do. So back to the big question: Who the fuck are ya?"

The man in the black poncho smiled apologetically. "My name, Mr. Quinn, is Ethan Murdock."


	14. Chapter 14

"So you're the bastard what that Marshal Jacobs been tellin' me about." Caleb grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and refilled his glass. Maddox and Murphy had brought Booker to one of the saloon's rooms, and Caleb had sat down with Mr. Murdock in his own little sanctuary.

"Again, I must apologise for not contacting you earlier, Mr. Quinn. I fear if I had, we'd both be dead by now."

"So ya decided it wiser to just let me almost kick the bucket various times in the last few weeks. Charmin'."

"I tried what I could to prevent the worst. Which, admittedly, wasn't much."

Caleb frowned, exhausted. "Duly noted."

The door creaked open, and Maddox leaned into the doorway, scowling.

"Y'know," he began, "you coulda told me we'd be dealin' with Pinkertons."

Murdock sighed. "As I was just telling Mr. Quinn, I feared we'd all be dead by now had I said anything."

Maddox grunted in dismay and closed the door behind him. "They tried massacring all o' us."

"They wanted to keep me an' Bridge alive," Caleb noted bitterly. "Hell knows why that is." He looked expectantly at Murdock, who just shrugged.

"Beats me, sir," Murdock said. "I had only been able to gather that they wanted you. And that was only due to Mr. Maddox's information."

"They had Gatlings, Murdock. Maddox is right when he says ya oughta have told him 'bout the Pinkertons."

"Again, I told you I figured it'd only end worse," Murdock defended himself, shoulders slumping slightly. "Would you rather have dealt with being in O'Hearn's or even Prescott's clutches? Because had Mr. Van der Bruggen not agreed, they likely would have found either of those to get the job done."

Caleb and Maddox grimaced in disgust before Maddox cocked his head skeptically. "They oughta have found those sons of bitches first. Booker wouldn't have known any 'bout _them_." He paused. "Come to think of it... How did that little rat even know we was in Copperwood?"

"A wild guess, according to him." Murdock flexed his hands. "He said that after the thing in Clementsburg, you'd either travel very far or to the next safe hiding spot. And that was Copperwood Grove."

"That little..." Maddox grunted and rubbed his face.

"What actually happened in Clementsburg?" Caleb interrupted.

"A bloody mess, that's what," Maddox answered before Murdock could. "I'll tell ya when there's time for it."

"Ya know I'll be lookin' into things?" said Caleb.

"That's a given."

Caleb nodded and put his glass down with a serious _thunk_. "Now, cards on the table, Murdock. From all I gathered, yer trying to save me arse from Bayshore. How well a job yer doin' is debatable, but I want to know _why_ , an' what _is_ goin' on."

Murdock leaned back and gave Caleb a long, thoughtful, and uncomfortably scrutinizing glance. Then he picked up his own tumbler and downed his drink. "Now. I know Dan told you that I been operating against Henry Bayshore for almost a decade now."

"He told me yer some kind of reporter."

"It's how I earn my daily bread, yes."

"So, ya only want to bring the fucker down for a story?"

Murdock shook his head. "I became a journalist in order to bring him down, Mr. Quinn. I have other bones to pick with him first and foremost."

Caleb nodded in acknowledgment. "Good. So the fucker's still alive?"

"I don't think so. I wish I knew for certain. What I know is that someone is operating in his interest."

Caleb glowered. "Now, spill them beans. What's goin' on? 'Cause God above knows there's no rhyme or reason to any of this shite."

Mr. Murdock cracked his neck and folded his hands on the table. "Alright, first things first. You likely figured that the person who put you on Mr. Wallace's trail is working for Bayshore."

"Yeah. His lawyer, I think."

"Yes. You might laugh, and all things considered, I am not surprised this Lynwood is involved. Mr. Hodgeson and he, they were part of the same law firm."

"Don't like the sound of that," Maddox muttered, finally sitting down on the bed.

"Me neither." Caleb shook his head. "Alright, go on. Why is whoever is behind this trying to get me to find this Wallace _and_ get me killed at the same fuckin' time?"

"Because there are two parties involved here, Mr. Quinn."

At that, Caleb gave Murdock nothing but a blank stare before he rolled his eyes.

"Rich people," Murdock said as if that was an explanation. And, frankly, it was. "You see, this all comes down to Bayshore's Last Will and Testament. More precisely, the wording thereof."

Caleb simply gestured to Murdock to continue.

"I ought to tell things in order," Murdock said. "Almost a decade ago, Bayshore changed his Last Will to make his 'oldest child' the sole heir to his fortune and company. The reason for this was a series of deaths and, according to Bayshore, 'vile betrayal'."

"What happened?" Caleb asked, amused and intrigued. 

"His oldest child, Richard, died about ten years ago. Cholera. Shortly after, Bayshore had a fallout with his second oldest child and disowned him." Murdock explained. "Two more deaths and another disowning followed. Right now, by Bayshore's definition, his oldest children are a pair of twins. The dispute began as the question whether or not both are entitled to the inheritance, or if it only applies to the oldest."

Caleb craned his neck a bit, looking a little taken aback at the sheer number of children in the Bayshore family. "Lemme guess. Now these two are tryin' to impress their daddy, or at least his lawyer, by tyin' up loose ends?"

"They are indeed." Murdock seemed impressed. "Now, I don't know which of the two is trying to have you do the work of finding Mr. Wallace..."

"He's callin' himself 'Harper'," Caleb scowled.

Murdock nodded. "I see."

Caleb paused, furrowing his brow in thought.

"What's wrong?" Murdock asked.

"I'm still... a little stuck at the number of children..." Caleb shook his head. "Bayshore was... what... sixty when we did him in?"

"Henry Bayshore shared more than just the name with Henry VIII, Mr. Quinn." Murdock half-joked, then frowned and rolled his eyes. "He got married at the age of twenty-one. His first wife gave him a son, dying shortly after birth. Bayshore remarried three months later, because it was good for business. After that woman gave him three children, he grew tired of her, divorced her and married his mistress, who gave birth to a girl not long after. Two more children followed. Then in 1864, Bayshore had grown tired of her as well, and kicked her out, marrying his new mistress who already had two children with him. The aforementioned twins. His third wife died in a curious accident about a year later."

"Ya mean he killed her?" Caleb said.

"No one's ever been able to prove anything."

"Not surprised," Caleb frowned, and by the looks of it, he _was_ trying to keep a tally of Bayshore's offsprings. "So, the son of a bitch has how many kids in total?" He glanced at Maddox, who appeared to have lost track of it as well.

"Ten in total," Murdock answered, "with seven still alive. The oldest, third and fourth oldest are dead, and the second and fifth oldest have been disowned. Bayshore marrying the twins' mother made them the eligible heirs, pushing James, the former sixth oldest-"

Caleb waved him off frantically. "I get it, I get it. That's the kind o' high society bullshit I dun wanna burden me brain with."

"That's a sign of taste and self-preservation, Mr. Quinn." Murdock flexed his fingers in thought. "Alright, the important thing is that the twins were set to inherit Bayshore's fortune and estate."

"But?"

"You see, Bayshore changed the wording of his will after the fallout —the 'vile betrayal'— with his second-oldest, as at the time his third-oldest, George, lay ill and it was uncertain he'd survive. The next in line was a woman named Emma."

"She died too, right?"

Murdock nodded at Caleb. "Making Florence Bayshore the legitimate heir. Florence, however, had a good relationship with her _disgraced_ half-brother, and she called her father out on it and the mysterious death of her mother. She was disowned as well. That was about eight years ago now."

Caleb rubbed his temples with a pained expression. "Yes, yes, all nice an' such, but that don't explain why one of the bastards out to get that pretty inheritance is tryin' to kill me while the other 'parently wants me to find some random arsehole."

"Not so random."

"Talk turkey, Mr. Murdock, 'cause me patience's growing thin." Caleb scowled.

"And ya don't have much to begin with," Maddox added, shaking his head. "Know what, you two talk this out; I'll see how the ratking's doing."

And with that, he stalked out of the room. Caleb looked after him, wrinkling his nose long after the door had closed.

"Look at that, he's leavin' me all alone to this shite," he grunted.

Murdock smiled wryly and shook his head. "I admit, I have been a little long-winded..."

"A _little_ , yeah," Caleb deadpanned.

"Alright, here's the thing. Bayshore has been tracking this Mr. Wallace for almost a decade now, as Mr. Wallace is his illegitimate child."

Caleb sat back, folded his hands in his lap, and let out a long sigh after an even longer moment of silence. "Y'know what, Mr. Murdock?" He singsonged far too jovially. "The Doc would clearly want me t' stay the fuck in bed an' not stress meself out, what with all them injuries I sustained the last few weeks. So why don't ya just bugger off..."

He flashed Murdock a toothy, crooked grin; a clear warning that he was about to snap, but Murdock was not impressed.

"If you find Mr. Wallace, all of Bayshore's empire will crumble," he noted, as dry as Death Valley.

Caleb sat up as straight as the pain jolting through his body allowed, cocking his head slightly as his strained smile faded into a thoughtful line. "All of it?"

"All of it, Mr. Quinn."

"How? Like, I can guess that Wallace is older than those twins..."

"Not just that. He's even older than Richard would be now."

Caleb nodded and thought about it. "Hold up. Why would this Wallace got any right to the inheritance? If Bayshore wants him dead, that's very much the opposite o' accepting him as the legitimate heir."

"Mr. Wallace is in possession of proof that he's Henry Bayshore's flesh and blood."

"Then why ain't he claimin' the inheritance yet?"

"He probably doesn't know about the Last Will. It was never made public."

"And ya know 'bout it..." Caleb didn't wait for an answer as he remembered something. "That was the stuff you stole, right? The marshal told me 'bout it."

Murdock gave Caleb an odd, but mostly guilty, look and nodded. "Yeah. That."

"Makes ya wonder why this Wallace hasn't tried yet, anyway."

All Murdock could do upon that was shrug. "I... really can't answer that."

Caleb let out an exhausted sigh and rubbed his temples again. "Alright, so... to summarize this bullshit. One of Bayshore's shits wants me t' find the person who could take away his money. The other wants t' kill me to get exactly that money instead o' arsehole number one."

"That very much sums it up, yes."

"I'm gettin' so bloody tired o' all o' this," Caleb moaned, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "So, what ya want me t' do?" Judging by the tone of his voice, Caleb was very aware that Murdock had plans other than his own, and that the other man would not allow Caleb to do things his way.

"Keep searching for Mr. Wallace. Do _not_ confront Robert or Edward. I don't know which one is behind this."

"Does it matter?"

"With these two? Yes. You see, they aren't identical twins. They take after their father very much, in all the worst ways, but their prefered paths of operation are different enough."

"One of them's been working with Van Laren; ever heard of that guy? An' with Van der Bruggen _and_ the bloody Pinkertons."

"I really can't tell. Could still be either. Could you..."

"Describe this Harper?" Caleb guessed and pressed his eyes shut. "I wish. Whenever I try to recall the wanker's face or anythin', it's all just one blurry mess." It was absurd. Caleb had a pretty good memory for faces at the end of the day; he had to, what with his line of work. But despite knowing he had gotten a decent look at this Harper, he just couldn't recall the man's face.

"Bugger," Murdock muttered.

Something clicked in Caleb's head as a detail finally solidified in his blurry mess of a memory. "Hold up a second, these two are how old again?"

"Recently turned thirty-five, why?"

Caleb furrowed his brow. "Weird."

"Why?"

"'Cause this Harper can't be older than thirty, no matter how much he's lookin' like a walkin' corpse." Caleb tried desperately to remember if this Harper or that lawyer had said anything that would point towards this Harper being older than he looked, but to no avail.

"Huh." Murdock's face fell and came back up as a concerned grimace. "Well, I wouldn't put it beyond them to have engaged more people than just Mr. Hodgeson and Mr. Lynwood to assist with this."

"Yeah." Caleb frowned sourly.

"Where did you meet this Mr. Harper? If I could get a look at him..."

"He buggered off," Caleb said. "Went to..." something in his head clicked into place. "Clementsburg, I been told."

"That's a big town."

"For all I know, he'll be rentin' rooms in one of them nicer hotels there. Ya might find him decently easy."

With a determined sigh, Murdock rose and smiled. "I shall try. When I know for certain, seeing this mess through ought to be easier." He looked Caleb up and down. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused you so far, sir."

"I'm only forgivin' ya 'cause ya wanna bring Bayshore down, just so we're clear."

Murdock nodded. "I figured. As for you... You _should_ lay down and rest. I'm certain Doctor Yeung will come by sooner or later."

Caleb moved over to his bed. "Yeah, so... do bugger off an' let me enjoy the last bits of time I have before the Doc tells me to stay in bed for some weeks."

Murdock smiled gently and bid his farewells. Caleb just frowned, rolled his eyes, and hoped the little wild goose chase he sent Murdock on would keep the man busy for a bit and out of his hair. No matter what the man said he was intending, Caleb didn't trust him. Not just because it all sounded too good to be true, but because it was all so absurdly complicated on top of that.

Then again... Rich people...

—

Ask anyone who knew Tommy about his character, and they'd tell you he was a thoroughly sarcastic bastard who spent little time worrying about the world around him. People who knew Tommy better—people like Seán—knew this was far from the truth. Tommy was a caring soul, but some scars ran so deep, he deemed it better not to show it to just anyone.

Tommy was thus a bit prone to melancholia, much to his dismay if he was honest. He hated being a pessimist as much as he delighted in being a sarcastic bastard.

And right now, Tommy was having one of his melancholic moments as he spent the night awake, watching over Finley.

Doctor Yeung had deemed it a good idea to bring Finley into one room with Tommy so he could keep an eye on the boy. And that was what Tommy was doing. That, and trying to make sense of what happened, more so than before.

"Why didn't ya tell us this shit before?" Tommy whispered, pushing a strand of hair from Finley's forehead. He sighed, carefully adjusting Finley's pillows before hobbling back to his own bed, just as the door creaked open slowly.

"Anythin' new?" Seán whispered, peeking his head in.

"No." Tommy's brow furrowed, looking over at the other bed. "I... I'm gettin' really worried."

Seán pulled off his boots and sat down next to Tommy. "Makes two of us." He tried to sound nonchalant and failed magnificently.

"He's gettin' a fever, Seán. I... I know that's not uncommon after something like that, but..."

Seán rested his head against Tommy's shoulder, saying nothing.

"Doc did another fuckin' miracle on him," Tommy continued, fingers absentmindedly combing through Seán's hair. "But..."

"I know what ya mean." Seán shook his head and slipped carefully off the bed, sitting down by Finley's bedside. "I been thinkin'," he whispered, caressing the boy's head.

"About?" Tommy asked.

"Finley, of course. 'Cause like, we already figured how little we know 'bout him. But... we _do_ know that he spent three years on his own after he ran away from the orphanage. Survives in the wild and the city streets, teaches himself to pick locks an' throw knives... Kid's right outta some dime novel."

Tommy snorted, amused. "Yer one to talk, Seán. Didn't ya run away 'round the same age as Finn, conning the upper-class bastards 'round the Midwest before ya turned ten?"

Seán looked at Tommy and puffed his chest with pride. "That I did. An' mind ya, if I hadn't done that, I'd never have met me better parents."

A grin crept onto Tommy's lips. "One o' these days ya really should introduce me to them. They oughta know I exist."

"Aw, are ya proposing t' me?" Seán teased. "Yer so sweet."

Tommy cackled. "Ya know I would if that'd be an option."

The cocky grin Seán was sporting turned into a soft smile as he sat back down next to Tommy again, resting his head against the other man's chest. "Y'mean it?"

"Of course," Tommy whispered softly, rubbing Seán's shoulder. "Yer the best thing to ever have happened t' me. If I could marry ya I would." He grinned. "Bonus points for that likely really pissing of yer biological mum."

"Pff, she can go to Hell for all I care." Seán gently rolled his shoulders. "She only had me to get me dad's money. Bitch."

"Y'know, it's definitely the morphine talkin' when I say somethin' like this, but, look at it this way. Had she not been like that, ya woulda never ran away, woulda never met yer better parents an' wouldn't have joined Kelly's gang, which let to us meetin' an' all..."

Seán wrinkled his nose. "Now, now, don't say Prescott pullin' the shit he pulled with ya was worth it."

Tommy shuddered softly and pressed a kiss unto Seán's forehead. "Every moment I'm with ya makes up for those years."

"You're too sweet." Seán sighed. "An' ya know, hearin' ya talk like this..." He looked back at Finley. "Y'know, the kid's convinced it's all his fault what happened with Quinn now."

"Yeah, I heard. He's always blamin' himself for shite like this."

"That's what I meant. But... had he not been in that barn... We would not have gone into the house. An' then we'd been ambushed by Bridge and his men in that barn an'..."

"We would not have made it out alive then."

Seán just nodded. "That's what I meant. Finn's been a blessin' in a way."

"He's a good kid." Tommy fell silent in thought. "An' all that despite the shit he went through in life, for all we know. Seán?"

"Mhn?"

"Ya think he'll be okay?"

"I hope so. The Doc did what he could, the rest... I mean Finley's as stubborn as Quinn."

Tommy chuckled. "Theys got so much in common. Really hard t' believe that they're _not_ related."

"It's a weird world we live in."

With a gentle nod Tommy cuddled up against Seán again. "An' how's the boss doin', while we're at it?"

"I'm certain the Doc will rip Quinn a new one if he's not moving his arse into bed soon enough. He's been drinkin' 'gainst the pain an' been talkin' to Maddox the whole night I think."

"Good." Tommy declared, determined. "I know he'd hate me for sayin' this, but for once in his life he oughta take it slow."

—

It might have surprised Tommy and Seán to learn that Caleb was right now indeed inclined to take things slow for once. As much as the new information he had gotten from Mr. Murdock had sent his mind reeling, his body was screaming at him, and as the major excitement had passed, exhaustion and pain were now taking its place.

That, and the doc had come by just then giving Caleb several ears full while he conducted a thorough examination.

"Do I need to spell out for you how close you were to losing your arm, or can you guess it yourself?" Yeung murmured, forcing bones back into their proper place. Caleb grunted against a piece of wood between his teeth.

"Not to mention you got several broken ribs that could have easily stabbed your lungs, heart, or both," the doctor continued, moving to put a proper cast on Caleb's arm. "And it's a miracle you haven't lost that eye."

Caleb simply frowned, pulled the wood from his mouth. "Am still here, ain't I?"

"Because you got more luck than sense, Quinn. I'm worried it'll run out one of these days." Yeung shook his head and concentrated on putting on the cast. "Do us all the favor and stay in bed for good this time."

"Can't do. Gotta go to..."

"Bed," Yeung cut Caleb off, glaring darkly. "Quinn, have you been _listening_? It's a miracle you didn't _die_ this time. Would you kindly listen to me?"

There was a brief flash of annoyance on Caleb's face at the doctor's tone, but he smiled, albeit a little exhausted. "Don't worry; I get ya, doc. Truth be told, yer right." He carefully laid back in bed and gazed at the ceiling. "It's one thing to have this kinda shite happen to one over several years, an' another to have it happen in... what now? Not even two months."

"Good to know you're seeing reason, Quinn."

"I'm not dumb, doc, you know that." Caleb shook his head. "Tell ya what, these few weeks since I got back were... weird."

Yeung pulled up a chair and sat down heavily, folding his hands. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here. I'm no psychologist, but..."

"Psycho-what-now?"

The doc smacked his lips in thought. "Forget it. Medical term. So..."

"It's these bloody nightmares." Caleb rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I know we all joke 'bout how I came back from Hell, but... I honestly believe that's what happened."

"Taking into account that you were gone without a trace..." Yeung leaned forward. "So, I guess you had more nightmares?"

"A couple. But..." Caleb squirmed into a more comfortable position. "After Tommy an' Seán found me, those nightmares felt like bona fide memories. Some still do."

"Like?"

"Hmm?"

Yeung smiled gently but askew. "Could you describe what you dream of? Miss Josie only gave me very rough outlines."

"If ya wanna hear it, doc. Just be warned, I have no idea what most of the shite I've seen means." Caleb began describing things to his best knowledge. From the hospital with the cold lights and the Japanese temple, to the labyrinthine warehouse and the abandoned town with its odd horseless carriages; all feeling like a cruel mockery of real places, all filled with those odd contraptions. He briefly laughed when he described how this otherworldly spider put Glenvale into Arizona.

"I guess the Devil found Arizona more fittingly desolate," Caleb said and grinned. "Or it just sucks at geography."

Yeung didn't smile, just nodded. Caleb didn't notice as he continued.

"But lately... I feel like this thing is tryin' to get into me head, doc. Tryin' to get me back." He began describing the dream he had at Copperwood Grove. How hopeless he felt and how then, all of a sudden, there had been this feeling he couldn't make sense of. "Whatever that was, it... it made me fight back. Y'know what a stubborn arse I am, but... the Devil almost got me there, I'm not gonna deny that. And..." Caleb swallowed dryly. "Tell ya what. I was scared. But then this other feeling... It was like a spark. I never felt like that before."

"Does it worry you?"

Caleb didn't answer immediately. "A little." He then said. "It's bad enough that I dunno what happened to me, an' now that..."

Yeung rose and placed a gentle hand on Caleb's shoulder. "Let me give you this advice as your doctor and your friend, Quinn. Whatever that spark is, hold onto it with all your might."

"I'm plannin' to. It's a good thing, I think. It feels like it. I just... I dunno _what_ it is."

The doctor smiled gently. "And that bothers you?"

"Of course. But if it helps me kick the Devil in the balls, I'll take it."

Now the doc laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Good. Look, I can't tell you what all that means, but I can tell you that you can't fight the Devil with as many broken bones as you got right now."

Caleb blew a raspberry. "Fine, fine, fine." He rolled his eyes, and then froze a little. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"I..." Caleb's voice grew unusually small, which told Yeung exactly what Caleb wanted to ask.

"You're worried about Finley, right?"

Caleb nodded. "I just had so much on me mind this morning, I... Will he be okay?"

Yeung's shoulders slumped a little. "It's all up to him now. I got the bullet out, but I won't lie to you. It was a close call. He's alive and breathing on his own, but he's unconscious. I put him into one room with Burke, so someone can keep an eye on him. All we can do is wait and see." He sighed softly. "With a bit of luck, the kid doesn't just look similar to you, but also shares your bloody stubbornness."

A small smile crept onto Caleb's lips. "Here's hopin'."

—

"So, how yer doing?" Maddox began, closing the door to Bridge's room behind him. Bridge pushed himself up a little bit, looking at the other man a little blearily.

"As good as the situation allows, I'd say."

"Well, that's something at least," Maddox said and pulled up a chair. "What did the doc say?"

"That I'll be right as rain. Won't be able to sit proper for a while."

Maddox smiled, a little amused, but then sighed. "We got a problem. A bigger one, I mean."

"Bigger than the Pinkertons being on our tails... again?"

With an exhausted and mildly angered nod, Maddox filled Bridge in on what had transpired so far. About Murdock and Booker and Bayshore and all. Bridge listened and finally frowned darkly.

"Sounds dreadfully familiar, don't it?" he began, more to himself than to Maddox.

"Been having the same thought." Maddox shook his head. "What d'ya say we do now?"

Bridge laid back down in the pillows. "I've been thinking about this the entire night. Or at least the entire time since the morphine wore off." He drew a deep breath. "At first I thought there are only two possibilities: Turn ourselves in, which I don't consider a viable option, or get away from here as soon as possible, lick our wounds and..." Bridge gritted his teeth and sought Maddox's eyes. "We picked the latter option before, and we both know how it ended when push then came to shove a little too hard. I am not going to make the same mistakes again. This time, this ought to be seen through till it's safe to say that it's, well, safe."

"You're going to stay and help Quinn then?"

Bridge nodded. "Surprised?"

Maddox smirked briefly. "No, I was planning on doing the same."

Now Bridge grinned as well, donning a mask of playful hurt. "You'd have abandoned me?" Then his face fell. "I... didn't mean that. It's..."

"I understand." With a long exhaled Maddox leaned forward. "Wanna know the truth? I'm happy you're goin' to help Quinn with this shit. Guess we both grown a bit wiser."

"Once bitten, twice shy. Will you ride out and tell the men to stay put?"

Maddox nodded. "Shall I give Fisher the command?"

"Yes. He's a good man, at the end of the day." Bridge sighed again. "So the Pinkertons are working for Bayshore for certain? Any idea why they _are_ involved, all things considered?"

"Hurt pride. That's what Quinn and I figured, at least. Guess Bayshore tried to have'm find this Wallace and they failed."

Bridge pondered. "What is it with this Wallace, anyway?"

Maddox could only shrug. "I left the conversation before Murdock got round to that, but from all he said... I'd guess this Wallace is Bayshore's kid and somehow entitled to the inheritance."

"Well, if that ain't a reason for a rich man to get cranky." Bridge drummed his fingers on the mattress in thought, before looking at Maddox again. "So, how long will Quinn be out?"

"Doc says at least a few weeks. Ya broke his bones pretty good. Not that Quinn will listen to the doc."

"Maybe talk to Miss McKee, I heard she might be able to make him." Bridge rubbed his face and took a deep breath. "What about that kid?"

"Finley? The doc moved him into Burke's room."

"Ah, so that's what that sound was. Will he be alright?"

"Doc says it's up to the kid. The bullet is out and he's all patched up, but... This is a goddamn mess, innit?"

"Sure is. But I told you. I'm not going to make the same mistakes again."

Maddox fell silent after this staring ahead for a moment. Then he nodded. "Don't mind if I'll make sure of that."


End file.
